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Sketch By John CJSohansen 


MEMORIES OF A 
SCULPTOR'S WIFE 


BY 
MRS. DANIEL CHESTER FRENCH 


With Illustrations 


BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
The Riverside Press Cambridge 


. 
ge 


COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY MARY FRE! 


. 


ALL RIGHTS 


re 


CONTENTS 


. A CutLp’s Memory or LIncoLn 

. Earty WAsHINGTON 

. Dan Frencn’s First APPEARANCE IN MY LIFE 
. CONVENT AND ConcorD 

. STUDENT Days 

. Concorn In 1878 

. CHESTER: A Puritan BackcrounD 

. Mrs. Frances Hopcson Burnett 

. PEARY AND OTHERS — 

. New York Satons anp Some CELEBRITIES 

. THe Wortp’s Farr: Saint-GAUDENS AND OTHERS 
. ArTIsTs AND MopELs 

. CHESTERWOOD AND THE WaR 

. STOCKBRIDGE 


. Taormina: A MepiavaL_ WEDDING 


Io! 


137 
154 
174 
200 
220 
240 
265 
287 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Danie. CHESTER FRENcH IN His Stupi1o 
From a painting by John C. Johansen Photogravure frontispiece 


Memory, By Daniet CHESTER FRENCH Title-page 
Dawn FRENCH AT THREE YEARS 2 
Mamre Frencu at THREE YEARS 2 
Joun Witkes Bootu, Murperer or LIncoLn fe) 
CHARLES RussELL, ARRESTED AS THE MURDERER 10 
First Work or ArT oF DaANniEL CHESTER FRENCH 28 


Tue Lincoun STATUE IN THE MeEmoRIAL AT WASHINGTON 44 
Tue Concorp Minute Man 58 


Dan FRENCH WITH THomAS BALL AND His FAmILy IN 
FLORENCE 68 


Dawn Frencu anp Nep Powers As RAPHAEL’s CHERUBS 72 


Dress REHEARSAL FoR THE Minute Man 76 
Ratpu WALpo EMERSON, STATUE IN THE ConcorD PuBLic 
LIBRARY 80 
Mrs. RatpH Watpo Emerson 96 
DaniEL FRENCH, THE AUTHOR’S GRANDFATHER 104 
Tue Two Aunts Piayinc CHEss IIO 


PxHotocrapH oF Oxtp FairHrut GEYSER AND SKETCH FOR 
Danie FreNcH’s Group 128 


Kate CHASE SPRAGUE 148 


Asia: Group on THE New York Custom Hovse 172 


Ropin AND THE Decanes OF Coeanain h 
STUDIO 


Two E RORS RARE OF THE Heap OF THE Laxcoun STATUE. 


eae ON SCULPTURE 


ete y if 


ANGEL FOR WHICH MARGARET F RENCH Posep— 


Tue Weppine Party In THE Rose GARDEN 


‘ 
% 


ef 


cet 


ee eee eS ee eee ee ee ee an eo s — es ; 


MEMORIES OF A 
SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


CHAPTER I 
A CHILD’S MEMORY OF LINCOLN 


Tuey said in the family that it was absurd — that I was 
too young — that I could not possibly remember the night 
Lincoln was shot, but I could, and I did. Even now, when 
I close my eyes, I can feel myself cuddling down in the 
small bed over in the corner of my mother’s room, under 
the blue-gray curtains, listening to that strange noise out- 
side, of a hand scraping up and down the slats of the blind, 
and drowsily watching the first, faint glow of the morning 
creeping into the room. 

That is the way, I believe, children remember; in 
flashes; bright, vivid, flashing pictures — all there is left of 
those early years of one’s life. 

There was also an earlier picture of a wedding, of no 
great international interest certainly, but persisted in by 
little me in spite of the united opposition of the family. 

A very beautiful aunt, whom I adored, had been married 
in a small town near Boston, and I quite took away the 
breath of my assembled brothers by announcing that I 
could remember the ceremony. My cousin Bessie, two 
years older than I, had met me, so I claimed, upon the 
narrow staircase, and we had crowded by each other in 


2 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


our ‘weddin’ dresses,’ in what I hope was only a friendly 
emulation. I do not remember hers, but mine was very 
full as to skirt, billowing out over stiff pantalettes. From 
the waist to the lower edge were groups of tiny tucks, and 
around this edge were small beads that glittered and spar- _ 
kled like the jewels in a fairy crown. Could a child ever 
forget a dress like that? | 

“Well, let it go as to dress,’ agreed my brothers — even 
a baby might know more about clothes than they did. But 
when I next remembered that Uncle John Barker had 
lifted me upon his shoulders, and carried me into the 
dining-room to gaze upon the good things to eat, and that 
there, at each end of the showy table, was a high dish of 
jelly — real calf’s-foot jelly — I was almost buried beneath 
an avalanche of brotherly derision. 

“You couldn’t ’a’ remembered it, smarty, first, because 
you were too little, and, second, because Uncle John wasn’t 
at the wedding, was he, Ma?’ 

My mother, who was the gentlest of souls, was forced to 
admit that Uncle John was not really and truly a relation, 
that he lived in Washington — at that time a great dis- 
tance from Concord, Massachusetts — and could hardly 
have been present. 

Sometimes, when my brothers all attacked me at once, 
I wept, to their great delight, but upon this occasion, at 
the age of four, I rebelled. ‘He was there,’ I persisted, 
‘and he did carry me into the dining-room, and the 
calf’s-foot jelly was on the table, and it shook — and it 
shook ‘ : : | ) 

As if at any age I could ever forget that slender glass 
dish, flaring at the top and piled high with shaking, quiver- 
ing sunlight, for all the world like that line in ‘The Night 


MAMIE FRENCH 


DAN FRENCH 
At Three Years 


At Three Years 


4 


as 


A CHILD’S MEMORY OF LINCOLN 2 


Before Christmas,’ descriptive of Santa Claus and his 
anatomy: 
*,..And a little round belly, 
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.’ 
I knew perfectly well that the poet was dreaming of calf’s- 
foot jelly when he wrote that immortal line. 

My beautiful aunt arrived later and announced that 
Uncle John Barker had been at the wedding, that he had 
come from Washington for the event, and that she had 
never been so touched in her life as by this attention. 

And all this, be it said with reverence — a baby’s mind 
is never irreverent — is a far cry from the death of our 
great President, but it goes to show that a very small child 
can remember the most vivid pictures of its life. 

It was early morning of the night of April 14, 1865, the 
light creeping forth after the terrible tragedy of the mid- 
night hour. I lay very still in my little curtained bed in a 
corner of my mother’s room — for Washington was very 
Southern in those early days, and there was usually a 
family bedroom on the ground floor. ’ Way over in the 
other corner stood the high-posted bed where slept my 
mother and father, with three mahogany steps, each step 
covered with a brown figured carpet, against the side. At 
its foot, pulled out some three or four feet, was the trundle 
bed where slept the two youngest children, younger than 
I, and not yet at the teasing age. I was in reality old 
enough to be relegated to the room above, but I was a good 
little girl, of a shy, affectionate nature, and was often al- 
lowed to sleep in the small bed in my mother’s room, the 
two younger children occupying the trundle bed, which, 
as I remember, was used only upon some such occasion. 
I loved to cuddle down among the pillows, soothed by the 


4 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


family propinquity, and also to escape from the brothers 
upstairs in the room next to mine, who were apt to make 
frightening noises in the middle of the night — just to see 
what a girl would do. 

Midway between my bed and the larger one was the 
window looking out upon, or at least nearly upon, the 
street. Around this window, in little threads of mist, the 
light seemed to be creeping in, the big pieces of furniture 
standing out in the gloomy shadows; and as I lay very 
still and watched it, there was a strange noise that seemed 
to come from nowhere, and made my heart jump right up 
into my throat. I sat up in the middle of my bed and 
peered about me into the half-light of the room; the low 
bed at its foot with its two sleeping cherubs; the fancy 
white marble mantelpiece with a small soapstone stove in 
front of it; the big medallions of the carpet standing out 
faintly, and that queer noise that had so frightened me, as 
of a hand drawn up and down the blind outside. Suddenly 
the noise changed, the hand was rapping, softly but firmly 
rapping, as if to arouse some particular person, without 
disturbing the neighborhood. 

I saw my father rise up suddenly, pause for a moment 
listening, throw his feet over the side of his bed, feel for 
the steps, and descend them awkwardly. Again, for a 
second, he paused and listened, then hurried to the window 
and threw open the blinds. 

‘The early daylight came like a gray mist filling the room, 
and there in the open square of the window were the head 
and shoulders and cap of a policeman! To my childish 
mind a policeman, always a formidable object, there in the 
window against the cold gray morning light, seemed like 
an apparition. I heard my father’s quick tone of inquiry, 


A CHILD’S MEMORY OF LINCOLN 5 


the other’s deep hurried whisper, and then a frightened cry 
from the bed. 

I suppose there was great excitement and confusion, 

and much conversation and repetition of drifting stories, 
but I do not remember them. Just one flash of the light 
breaking in through the stillness of the night, the figure of 
the man in the window, and the creeping terror of those 
whispered words. President Lincoln assassinated! Dead! 
Seward stabbed! My uncle’s house guarded! 
It seemed that my uncle, Major B. B. French, who was 
at that time in public life and an intimate friend of Lincoln, 
lived in a handsome old house upon East Capitol Street, 
where now stands the north wing of the Library of Con- 
egress. It was supposed that, in the confusion of the assas- 
sination, all the public men were to be included in the 
massacre, and guards were sent about to protect the houses 
of those officially prominent, among others my uncle’s. 
He had sent the policeman down to tell my father. 

During these days between the assassination and the 
funeral, so full of tragic emotions, but a blank in my child- 
ish memory, the one outstanding comfort was that, with 
thousands of other children, I wore a broad black band 
upon the sleeve of my little dress. These bands were varied 
as to size and material; especially upon the arms of the 
negroes, some of them rusty, and here and there a black 
rag tied in a knot. I remember whole groups of negroes 
with these mourning symbols on their arms. There was 
naturally great emulation among us children as to whose 
band was the broadest, and one little black girl named 
Lucy — I am quite sure she had no other name and barely 
any other personality, for I remember her only as weeping 
aloud because for a moment she was obliged to wear a 


6 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


jacket and thereby cover up the badge of honor. She was 
led off by her father, wailing, ‘You’se covered de band, 
you’se covered de band! and how’s anybody gwine know 
I’se in moanin’ fo’ de Pres-i-dent?’ That was the first and 
last that my memory ever culled of Lucy. 

The assassination of the President had happened just — 
two weeks after the fall of Richmond, and though I re- 
member nothing about this myself, my ears were filled 
with all the drifting stories, many of them happening to 
those very near to me. Major French, for forty years in 
Washington, was a friend of all the Presidents. At the 
time of Lincoln’s assassination he was Marshal of the 
District, etc. His letters are full of comment as to these 
stirring days: 


Monday, April 3rd. At noon the news came that Richmond 
was taken. I was in Court, which at once adjourned. On getting — 
into the street, I found the population half crazy. Women were 
on balconies and at windows waving flags, men were shouting, 
shaking hands and running to and fro, speeches were being made, 
cannons fired, bands of music moving about playing ‘Yankee 
Doodle,’ and I immediately found myself involuntarily keeping 
step with the music. I came to the Capitol and found a letter 
from F. W. Seward, Ass’t Sec’y of State, advising me that the 
public buildings would be illuminated. I set all the men I could 
muster at work.... Tuesday evening the illumination took 
place. The Capitol made a magnificent display. I had the 
twenty-third verse of the hundred and eighteenth psalm printed 
on cloth in enormous letters as a transparency, and stretched on 
a frame the entire length of the top of the Western Portico of the 
Capitol, viz., ‘This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvellous in our 
eyes.’ It was lighted up with gas and made a brilliant display, 
and could be read far up Pennsylvania Avenue. | 


Saturday evening, April 15th, twelve days later. Arrived home 
from a visit to Richmond, with a most pleasant party, at about 
eight o’clock last evening. Went to bed at ten and slept till 


A CHILD’S MEMORY OF LINCOLN 7 


nearly daylight. When I awoke and saw that the street lamps 
had not been extinguished, I arose and saw a sentry pacing up 
and down before my house. I dressed, and thinking something 
was wrong, went down to the front door. The soldier said, 
*‘Aren’t the doings of last night dreadful?’ I asked him what do- 
ings, and he replied that the President had been shot in Ford’s 
Theater, and Secretary Seward’s throat cut at his residence. I 
told Mrs. French and then started out. I went first to the Cap- 
itol and ordered it closed, and then on to Tenth Street to the house 
where the President lay. He was surrounded by the members of 
the cabinet, physicians, generals, etc. I stood at his bedside for a 
short time. He was breathing heavily, and I was told there was 
no hope for him. I then went into the room where Mrs. Lincoln 
and Robert (her son) were, surrounded by her ladies. I took her 
by the hand and also shook hands with Robert, who was crying 
audibly. I was then asked to take the President’s carriage and go 
and get Mrs. Sec’y Wells, which I did. 

The President died at twenty-two minutes past seven a.m. He 
was taken to the White House about nine a.m., and I saw him 
removed from the temporary coffin. I gave all the directions 
that I could as to preparations for the funeral and came away 
about 12. Came through the Capitol, gave directions for cloth- 
ing it in mourning and came home. It has been ascertained be- 
yond doubt that the President was assassinated by John Wilkes 
Booth. The attack on the Sec’y of State was an exceedingly 
desperate one, and not only the Sec’y but his two sons and two: 
servants were wounded, F. W. Seward, it is feared, mortally. 
There is no doubt it was an organized conspiracy. At the hour of 
the attack there was a sudden extinguishing of all the lights on 
the terrace of the western front of the Capitol. The police dis- 
covered it at once, and had them relighted. 


Another brief account of the night of the surrender of 
Richmond comes from my cousin Lucia, a girl of fifteen at 
the time, who went out with friends to hear the music and 
see the crowd. They started early in the evening, and, 
after wandering aimlessly about, were the first to stroll 
into the grounds of the White House, which was, of course, 
brilliantly illuminated. Every one was in a state of tense 


8 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


silence, the place gradually began to fill with people, and 
my cousin and her friends were crowded into a spot close 
under the front windows. After a short time one of these 
windows was thrown open, and the head and shoulders of 
the President appeared against the glare of the lighted 
room behind. He spoke to the crowd with, even for him, 
unusual emotion, the bands playing, the people outside 
listening and cheering alternately. Finally, some one 
called out, ‘Give us Dixie,’ and, quick as a flash, Lincoln 
leaned out of the window and said, ‘Yes, give us Dixie, I 
think we have achieved Dixie.’ And the young girl, in 
after years, used to say that she had stood there feeling al- 
most sanctified in the light of that great achievement, and 
the glow upon the face of the great President. 

She also used to tell of an incident that happened in the 
family, of which I had no memory at the time, although I 
recall well enough with what excitement my brothers and 
cousins used to tell and retell the story. One of them, a 
cousin, by name Charlie Russell, a handsome youth — I 
have forgotten his exact age — was for years afterwards a 
hero in their eyes. 

As I have said, the city was in a terrible state of tension 
and excitement, following the assassination. People were 
ordered to stay close to their homes; those upon Capitol 
Hill were not allowed to go down hill; those downtown were 
not allowed to climb the hill; no one of course was per- 
mitted to leave the city. People were watched and ques- 
tioned upon every corner, The police force of that day, I 
believe, consisted of forty men. 

But in spite of these precautions, in spite of the tense- 
ness in the very air, this young man, of perfect health and 
a normal conscience, slept peacefully through the early 


A CHILD’S MEMORY OF LINCOLN 9 


hours, dressed himself about six o’clock, and, with a friend, 
started off upon a shooting expedition. They went along, 
their guns over their shoulders, through the quiet streets 
of Capitol Hill, too unconscious to notice or at least to 
bother about any unusual tension in the air; and so escaped 
all interference until, at the edge of the town, they reached 
an old bridge that led into Virginia. The bridge was 
guarded, and, to their great surprise and indignation, they 
were arrested. Carrying guns and leaving the city were 
both suspicious doings. Didn’t they know that nobody 
was allowed to go anywhere? And when several of the 
guards congregated about them, one of them called out, 
pointing at my cousin, ‘That one looks just like the mur- 
derer, John Wilkes Booth, dark and handsome.’ It was 
true that my cousin, except as to age, answered exactly the 
description of Booth, slender, a delicately handsome face, 
and wonderful dark eyes. 

It must have been a shock to young Russell’s nerves at 
the time, unused to movies and the thrills of Sunday news- 
papers, to be arrested as a murderer, even though a subject 
of pride among the youths of Capitol Hill for months 

afterwards. The guards were on the point of carrying 
them off to the station house, but the evident frankness of 
the boys, and the gross innocence of trying to walk out of 
~ town in broad daylight with guns over their shoulders, 
made its impression. The young men persuaded their cap- 
tors to go first to their own house, and, when Mrs. Russell 
and the family greeted them with exclamations of aston- 
ishment and recognition, the prisoners were released with- 
out further trouble. 

On the second day, my father took me to the Capitol to 
see the body of the great President lying in state. Still 


10 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


out-of-doors in the sunlight, we went up a thousand steps, 
more or less, to the entrance — broad, deep, white marble 
steps, so steep that each one was a scramble. My father 
wished to carry me, at times insisted, but I was thrilled 
with the pride of accomplishment. ‘No, no,’ I protested. 
‘I want to do it my own self.’ And I almost dislocated my 
little legs in my efforts to keep up with the swarming 
crowd about me. I may have been carried the last nine 
hundred, but I remember only the ones up which I strug- 
gled; then, the great circular room — reaching up, up to 
the very heavens — and nothing in it, save a solid black 
pile in the middle, my father’s legs striding along on a 
level with my eyes, the floor of inlaid marble beneath my 
pattering feet, and a sense — an overwhelming sense — 
of silence and of space. 

We went in through a little door at the left about half- 
way back, as near as one can describe the directions of a 
circle — I made up my mind that I would go again some- 
time and see if the little door really was at the left, and 
whether it really was little. At any rate, we went through 
it and up a winding staircase in the wall. It was a queer 
little staircase, narrow, of iron, the steps growing smaller 
toward the center, and I was interested to find that, even 
upon the narrow end, my tiny feet could stand. We came 
out, finally, into one of the great galleries, with its light 
stone railing, which was all I could see at first. My father 
lifted me up and placed me upon the balustrade so that I 
could swing out into space and gaze down, down into the 
depths below, and they were mighty depths, the walls 
going up, up, and down, down, until they reached the in- 
laid floor which I had just left, the floor stretching out end- 
lessly to meet the walls, 


ujooury jo Jasapinyyl JaIIpINU sy} Sv ps}saIy 
HLOOd SAMTIM NHOL TITASSNU SATAVHO 


@ - : wie ws a _ i ae 


A CHILD’S MEMORY OF LINCOLN II 


From the great entrance door, which they reached by 
the thousand steps outside, came a surging line of black 
figures. They came slowly, monotonously, moving around 
the great pile in the center in a half-circle, and on and on 
out of the door to the west. Many, many people were 
there in that long, black trail, but they were so slow, so 
steady, so compact, that the rest of the great rotunda was 
still empty and big, the greatest sense of space which I 
have ever felt. 

In the middle, upon the inlaid floor, stood the big black 
pile. At the end toward me it seemed long and narrow, at 
the top it slightly broadened out. I knew it was a casket 
— my brothers had initiated me more than once into the 
mysteries of the funereal side of life. The upper part of the 
coffin was open, presumably covered with glass, and there, 
peaceful and still, was the face of Lincoln. As I close my 
eyes and look back upon it, it seems as if the face were 
large and white, as if carved out of marble, the face of a 
giant lying there asleep. How much of this was memory, 
how much of it the result of pictures that grew up in my 
mind during those days after the funeral, when the per- 
sonality of the great President was upon every lip, I do not 
know, but it is thus I have always seen him. 

I must have, at some moment, stood upon the floor of 
the gallery —a funny little figure in pantalettes and 
broad-brimmed hat — for one of my chief memories is of 
standing close against the railing which towered above my 
head, my face pressed between the upstanding columns, 
my eyes peering into the depths below, my father’s re- 
straining hand upon my coat at the back of my neck. 

We have in the family a treasured heirloom, a tiny 
cluster of dried flowers — a rose and some leaves — which 


12 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


my uncle, who loved him, gathered from the bunch resting 
within Lincoln’s hand. 

Those weeks — and months — and years— after the 
death of the President are a strange jumble in my mind, so 
much that was tragic and terrible, so much that was ten- 
der, so much that was humorous, coming in little — unex- 
plained — points of memory to the surface, many of them, 
doubtless, in the wrong place — all the excitement about 
the murderers and their escape, the tracking of Booth, the 
intimate details of the White House, and we smaller chil- 
dren listening, listening, with distended ears and bulging 
eyes, to conversations which, in moments of such excite- 
ment, could not be restrained. : 

My father had known Lincoln, had played at bathe with 
him in those early days before his advent to the White 
House, and he always laughed when he spoke of the Rail- 
Splitter’s long arms which swung out like windmills. They 
accused him of taking an unfair advantage, beginning, as 
he did, halfway down the alley. 

I find in Dr. Busey’s account of old Washington some 
particulars as to the boarding-house where they all lived. 
There were but few small hotels at that time and many 
prominent people lived at Mrs. Spriggs’s, the fourth of a 
row of houses known as Carroll Row. It stood upon First 
Street, near South A, and fronted the Capitol upon the 
block where now stands the Library. There were Senators 
and members of Congress there, General Duff-Green 
whose daughter married the son of John C. Calhoun, so- 
cially prominent, and as Dr. Busey quotes: ‘Abraham 
Lincoln, then in Congress, Edmund French [my father], 
and myself.’ 

Lincoln was evidently recognized, even in those days, as 


A CHILD’S MEMORY OF LINCOLN 13 


an interesting personality, and his amiable disposition 
made him popular in the household. Somewhat reserved 
as to serious subjects, he showed the same ingenuity for 
which he was famous in later years, for diverting dangerous 
arguments by way of some amusing anecdote. 
' When they played bowls, at which he was somewhat 
awkward, but which he did largely for amusement and for 
exercise, he kept up a running fire of witticisms and funny 
illustrations of whatever might be happening at the mo- 
ment. On the afternoons or evenings when he played, 
people crowded in because they knew there would be some- 
thing to laugh at. ‘His witticisms seemed, for the most 
part, to be impromptu, but he always told the anecdotes 
and jokes as if he wished to give the impression that he had 
heard them from some one, but they appeared very many 
times as if they had been made for that immediate occa- 
sion.’ . 

‘Old Abe,’ my uncle used to say — ‘they find fault with 
him, they say all kinds of things about him, but I believe 
in him. He’s got the real stuff in him.’ 


CHAPTER II 
EARLY WASHINGTON 


WE smaller children lived the war and its aftermath vi- 
cariously, so to speak, our knowledge, our judgment, 
breathed in through the arguments, the long discussions 
of our elders, my father and his neighboring friends; my 
brothers, just growing to manhood; the returning troops; 
the bedraggled prisoners; the great camp—or so it 
seemed to our childish eyes — in front of the house; the 
tense undercurrent in every voice, the recurrent reference 
to those who would never come back. Through the mystic 
curtain the actors stand out boldly: the big stolid figure of 
Grant; the clean-cut figure of Lee, recognized even by his 
enemies, even at that agitated time, as a great general; 
Little Mac, whom the soldiers loved in spite of all criti- 
cism; the dramatic flight of the romantic-eyed Booth; 
Jefferson Davis, whom I picture as always escaping, and 
always in hoopskirts, and — Lincoln! 

The terrible abuse through which the great President 
had lived was something of which I learned only long 
afterwards. My family adored him; at that time people 
spoke of him with universal gentleness, and the darkies, 
who were our constant friends and companions, looked 
upon him as a god. I know also that there was bitterness 
toward the South, but of this I heard little, though we 
were good Yankees. Our friends about the country, 
Virginia and Maryland, were many of them Southern, and 
also I imagine that an incident which happened in our 


EARLY WASHINGTON 16 


family circle served to temper our thoughts, and brought 
home to us the enormity of the tragedy of civil war. 

An aunt of ours — one of those adopted aunts whom all 
children have upon the edge of the family circle — a very 
lovely woman, by name Aunt Rebecca, left alone by the 
exigencies of the struggle, came to live with us. Her 
brother, our dearly beloved Uncle John, went into the 
Northern army; her husband, our still more dearly beloved 
companion, Uncle Bill, for some unknown, or at least 
forgotten, reason, went South and fought in the Southern 
ranks. All during those terrible years and those hot sum- 
mer months, her mind, and in a lesser degree, the minds 
of her friends, my family, must have been torn by con- 
flicting sympathy, but never, I am sure, by conflicting 
loyalty. 

The two uniforms — the blue and the gray — both of 
them old, the gray stained and bedraggled, were in our 
attic all during our childhood, and my brothers dressed up 
in them and fought over, with a somewhat vague and un-. 
formulated bitterness, the battles in which they had been 
too young to take part. 

One very definite thing, which I do remember, was that 
my father, and many of the friends about him, never be- 
lieved that Mrs. Surratt was guilty; that the assassins 
undoubtedly met in her house, but that she was uncon- 
scious of the enormity of their plans. 

‘Have you read the trial of the conspirators?’ wrote my 
uncle to his brother. ‘I have read it pretty faithfully, and 
think Mrs. Surratt, Herold, Payne, and Atzerodt will be 
found guilty, but I do not believe any one but Payne will 
be hanged. There is no evidence against O’Laughlin, and 
but little against Mudd, Arnold, and Spangler. Herold is 


16 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


too simple to be hung — Mrs. Surratt is a woman, and 
Atzerodt, however guilty at one time, dacked out at the 
last moment, confessed, and put the detectives on the 
track of Booth. Perhaps the President may think it best — 
to make an example of one or two more; if he does, Mrs. 
Surratt and Herold will be in danger.’ 

The judge who tried the murderers was always looked 
at rather askance in the neighborhood. He lived on Capi- 
tol Hill, and evidently felt the criticism, for he went about 
but little, and the blinds of his house were always kept 
down. We children used to watch his house curiously, — 
because in the front yard was a small fountain, a basin 
for the water that never flowed, supported by the figure of 
a woman which the boys called, jokingly, ‘Mrs. Surratt.’ 

One of the accused who was spared lived next door to 
us afterwards — many years afterwards. I do not re- 
member his name, but he was still a young man when we 
children used to watch him going in and out of the house. 
He was young even then, a slight, colorless-looking man, 
who never seemed to speak to any one, even to my 
brothers, who were omnivorous in their social instincts. — 


Washington, having been chosen deliberately as the 
Capital, at that time an unprecedented procedure, must 
have been very different from most American “cities, 
though my acquaintance with cities of any kind was 
limited. I remember it as a medley of broad avenues, 
stretching out with a fanlike regularity, a group of classic 
buildings at one end, the end farthest removed from where 
we lived, scattered houses of every size and variety — 
shacks — and heat — and darkies! Darkies everywhere; 
boys and girls who played with us, and worked for us after 


EARLY WASHINGTON 17 


a devoted, if somewhat spasmodic, fashion, little pickanin- 
nies with rolling eyes, and pigtails sticking out from their 
woolly heads; and the tumbledown, or, more correctly 
speaking, propped-up shacks in which they lived, one or 
two of them leaning confidingly against the old wooden 
fence at the foot of our garden. And the heat, which 
started early and lasted late, which grew and grew, shut 
down like a pall upon us in June and stayed with us into 
October, seething up from the asphalt, oozing out from 
the buildings, beating down from the merciless blue above. 
I hardly know which was more closely associated with that 
early Washington life — the heat or the darkies. 

Our house was upon Capitol Hill, some five or six 
streets east of the Capitol. In front of the house was a 
tract of land known to us children as the Common, its 
edges plunging down in sharp declivities to beaten paths 
politely called sidewalks. wins the thoroughfares were 
paved. 

I have little memory, as a child, as to the other end of 
the town, with the sole exception of the White House to 
which we were sometimes taken upon sight-seeing pil- 
grimages — a long ride in a jogging horse-car. 

The new part of Washington, where I lived, Capitol 
Hill, had been laid out in the march of improvement by 
cutting a crisscross of streets, regardless of anything save 
the future beauty of the city, leaving the houses — most 
of them small and insignificant — wherever they happened 
to be. Those which had been built upon the low land 
rested peacefully, flush with the street, and were easily 
accessible. Some of them, like ours, which had been built 
upon prominent sites, had been left high and dry, the 
banks cut away from their gardens and porches, up and 


18 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


down which ran flights of wooden steps with railings at the 
sides, usually rickety. I remember these railings well — 
because it was like a game — trying to hold on to them 
with our little hands — and because for the same reason 
we were forbidden to climb upon them. In fact, my early 
life is filled with pictures of my small self descending 
laboriously these long flights of steps, picking my way 
across the muddy, clayey streets, and clambering up the 
steps at the other side, where my small friends lived in 
their houses, perched high upon ¢heir banks. We called 
them by the names of the people who, like tribes, inhab- 
ited them: ‘Mamie French’s bank,’ ‘Lizzie Toucy’s bank,’ 
etc. 

There were scattered about the neighborhood numerous 
old-fashioned houses with large grounds, which had been 
estates, left, like our smaller one, high and dry by the 
wholesale cutting through of streets. There was the 
Pourtalés place, our next neighbor, which must have had 
a name, though I have forgotten it, and many times a day 
we descended the steps of our bank, waded across the 
muddy street, and clambered up the numberless steps of 
the Pourtalés bank, a toilsome, but, to our childish minds, 
a perfectly natural, proceeding. 

At some distance up the road —at the back of our 
house — everything was road or common, the only paved 
street being the paved avenue in front; as the darkies 
would have said, ‘a right smart distance’ up the road 
stood ‘Duddington,’ the remnant of the old estate where 
upon its own particular hill lived the Carrolls, while next 
it upon its hill stood that of the Nicholsons, the name of 
which I have forgotten. To these old places we went 
habitually, though not so constantly as to our neighbors, — 


EARLY WASHINGTON 19 


~ the Pourtaléses, for the way was both rough and muddy, 
or, if by the paved avenue, circuitous. 

Each of these great houses had its story, only threads 
of which stay in my memory, and each of them was swept, 
gradually, inevitably swept, in the devastating march of 
improvement, into oblivion. There were also numberless 
smaller houses, commodious and dignified, where lived 
the old families of Washington, or at least that fraction of 
them with which I at that time came in contact, the Chil- 
tons, the Middletons, the Brents—my grandfather’s 
house, upon New Jersey Avenue among them, though he 
and his family were not originally Washingtonians. 


My grandfather was named Peter Brady and had come 
over from Ireland with his English wife and settled in 
Washington, goodness knows why, for it must have seemed 
a forlorn place in 1812, with the new White House at one 
end of a wilderness, the Capitol at the other, and here and 
there an estate such as Duddington, each in its own little 
wilderness, miles apart. My grandfather’s house upon 
New Jersey Avenue was by no means one of the grand 
houses, but it was large, with high ceilings and mahogany 
doors, and here, backing up on the very crest, so that it 
was, in the back, to us children’s great delight, some seven 
stories down the bank. 

Here, at times, came Andrew Jackson, his friend, and, 
when the latter was President, my grandfather was his 
private secretary. There were many intimate stories of 
‘Old Hickory,’ but the special one which I remember, is 
of my grandfather’s taking his two little girls to visit the 
President. They were taken upstairs into the President’s 
office, where he sat in a big armchair near the window. 


‘20 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


He must have been a rather formidable figure, seated in a 
wing chair, in a flowered dressing-gown and slippers, his 
bushy eyebrows and hair and beard rather startling to 
the younger of the children. He was smoking a long clay 
pipe. 

They obediently crossed the room with their father, and 
stood in front of him, looking like old daguerreotypes in 
their big bonnets and pantalettes. My aunt, at first, was 
somewhat shy, and hardly spoke. The old man was 
cordial, laughed at them, joked with them, asked their 
names and ages, and Reaty glanced about him upon a 
near-by table. 

‘I wish I had something to give you,” he said, ‘but I 
don’t see anything that children would like.’ 

Little Mary Ellen seemed about this time to have re- 
covered her courage. She was, I think, about six years old. 

‘I know what I’d /ike to have,’ she lisped, looking very 
self-conscious, twisting the ribbon of her sash in her two 
little hands. 

*Heigh-ho!’ said the President, ‘you know at ir you'd 
like? Well, what is it?’ 

And after a moment, the child with a great effort, as if 
the temptation were too great to resist: ‘I’d like — that 
long pipe.’ 

‘You'd like this pipe?’ repeated the old Genaniliattiie 
pipe that I’m smoking?’ — growing more and more 
amused, ‘What on earth would a little girl like you do 
with a pipe like this?’ 

‘I’d blow — soapbubbles,’ said Mary Ellen promptly, 
having evidently forgotten her bashfulness. 

At this the President threw himself back in his chair, 
took the pipe out of his mouth, and laughed. 


EARLY WASHINGTON 21 


‘You'd blow soapbubbles,’ he said. ‘Well, well, that’s 
a new idea. But what would J do?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ said the child, as if his question stag- 
gered her a little. 

‘Well, well,’ said the President, greatly amused. ‘I 
don’t see how I could give up my pipe. I’m so wedded to 
it. I don’t think I could get along without it. But perhaps 
I could find something else. I’ll see.’ 

-The next day, about noon, one of the servants came 
rushing upstairs in a state of great excitement. “Oh, 
there’s a gran’ cah’ige in front o’ de house. You chil’en 
come look at it.’ Of course every one rushed to the front 
windows, and there, sure enough, was a very grand car- 
riage at the curb, with a pair of fine horses, and two men 
up in front, the darkies and the children in the street 
gathering about it. 

The younger of the men descended from his perch, 
opened the door of the carriage, took out a long box, 
brought it up the steps of the terrace, along the walk, up 
the steps of the house, and rang the bell. Before the latter 
had ceased to tinkle, the two colored maids, with the 
children at their heels, had opened the door. 

‘A package from de Executive Mansion,’ said the foot- 
man with great importance, ‘fo’ little Miss May Ellen 
Brady, and signed, “Andrew Jackson.”’ 

For years afterwards, this pipe, with the letter tacked 
beneath it, hung above the door in the library of my 
grandfather’s house, but when the house was torn down, 
in the course of developments, my aunt sent it to a mu- 
seum. 


The one spot perhaps which seems to me, when I close 


22 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


my eyes and think about it, most closely identified with 
those early years is the common, the particular common in 
front of our house. It was not very big— one fourth, 
perhaps, of a city block — compared to the wilderness of 
commons which stretched out beyond us into the un- 
explored country to the east. All the open spaces were 
called commons — but this was our common, much more 
our own than the family parlor or kitchen could ever have 
been. To us it seemed of endless size, and was a play- 
ground for all the children who lived near us. It was 
frankly recognized as the very best common in the neigh- 
borhood. It was flat and adapted to games, the bank at 
the front was unusually steep, giving it a sense of privacy, 
and my mother was an unfailingly hospitable mother. — 

Then there were so many of us, one older sister and, in 
later years, one younger, five brothers of assorted sizes 
—and me. They were always there, always ‘out on the — 
common,’ and this brought the other children, the dogs 
and the darkies, these latter the offspring of the older 
negroes who worked for us, who intermittently helped a 
little themselves, and were our friends in a relationship 
which I believe rarely existed in any other land. And the 
darkies brought their goats and tethered them there, and 
they really did eat tin cans, for I saw them do it! 

Here the children fought, they wrestled, they played 
games; they had picnics, the dogs barked, and the darkies 
took blissful naps in the sun. As to my brothers, they 
fought always with each other or together against a com- 
mon foe. The place might have been called an isolated 
plateau infested with brothers and darkies, and in the 
summer-time seething with heat. 

In front of the common, slightly at right angles and 


at ee 
as 


EARLY WASHINGTON 23 


bisecting that part of the city from the Capitol to the 


Navy Yard, ran Pennsylvania Avenue, the only street 
which at that time was paved. Up and down the avenue, 
at all hours of the day and night, went soldiers of every 
description, regiments of infantry, artillery, cavalry, 
horses bedraggled and jaded, others prancing and roman- 
tic, rumbling, bumping cannon, implements for killing 
which since the Great War would seem like child’s play; 
but to one little girl back in those dark ages, that avenue 


and that common were the theatre of the war. 


One of my most vivid memories is of General Custer 
riding almost daily by the house at the head of his men, 
his horse always galloping, his collar open at the neck, his 
broad white sombrero at a rakish angle, his long blond 
hair, like a knight of old, waving about his shoulders. I 
do not know whether he was as romantic a figure as I re- 
member him, but he was the adored among the older 
girls, my sister and her friends, who used to sit upon the 
bank at a certain hour of the day to see him pass. Also, 
I do not know whether this happened often, but I remem- 
ber his lifting his hat with a flourish and bowing low in the 
saddle, then the officers about him lifting their hats, and 
the troop dashing off down the avenue. I think it may 
have been an unusual occasion, for I also remember these 
girls sitting up half the night in their room, next to mine, 
talking and giggling about him. 

Sometimes, the soldiers camped upon this common in 
front of our house, a period of mixed excitement and trib- 
ulation. We loved, of all things, to watch them, though 


__ at such times we were not allowed the usual freedom. I can 


see cause for my mother’s anxiety, her six sons in such close 


; _ propinquity to a soldiers’ camp, and I always think of my- 


24 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


self as standing close to various openings in the fence, giv- 


ing them apples and receiving treasures in the shape of — 


hardtack, broken shells, etc. 

I heard afterward that these things happened often, 
but I always think of one particular occasion when we 
watched them, in bitter tears, packing up and going away. 
It seemed as if the end of the world had come; as if they 


had been there always. The boys were busy for days after- 


ward gathering up the treasures left behind: odds and ends 
of broken firearms, an occasional knife, and, above all — 
Bibles. As I remember it, the entire common had sprouted 
Bibles. The boys around the neighborhood came and 
gathered them in baskets, some of them well-worn, places 
marked with pencils and papers, but the majority of them 
as new as if they had never been opened. After that our 
house was stacked with Bibles and Testaments. I treas- 
ured one, a very dilapidated little book, which I was al- 
lowed to keep for myself and to take to bed with me. The 
ideas of hygiene in those days were different! 


In or about the year 1869, our family moved from the 
house in which we had previously lived, from its bank with 
its rickety steps, and its common which had been to me the 


af 


scene of life and war, over across two or three open streets _ 


to another home. This house was called picturesque and 
romantic, as it must have been, I think, even to other 
people, for it was always spoken of, after it had long dis- 
appeared from sight, as the ‘old Barney Parsons house.’ 
It was certainly very different, quite a wonderful old 
building running along the street, long and low, a blank 
wooden wall with small windows at violently irregular 
intervals, and a tiny square porch, up in the air, at the 


EARLY WASHINGTON 26 


front door, with a wooden railing, and a short staircase 
hugging the wall. I don’t know why the door was stranded 
in the air like this. It looked like an afterthought, for we 
certainly no longer lived upon a bank, which fact must 
have seemed strange to us children after our daily, indeed, 
hourly, climbs up and down the rickety steps: but children 
are adaptable, and I have no memory of it except that it 
was all new and exciting. 

Inside I remember a square room which was called the 
hall. The house must have been only the depth of this hall, 
and consisted of rooms of different sizes and heights and 
elevations, running along the street to right and left, 
Everybody went through everybody else’s room, as they 
seem to have done in the old Venetian palaces, and always 
up and down a step or two, with only a tiny window with 
tiny panes here and there; just a glimpse of the street or 
the garden outside. At the back was a lean-to forming a 
long and tolerably wide porch with a brick floor, and sup- 
ported by plain wooden posts. This floor was of bricks 
laid sideways with an irregular pattern near the outer edge, 
which would imply more of a claim to architecture than 
I associate with the plain old structure, though I am sure 
that nowadays, in this early American craze, it would be 
deified into a shrine. 

We lived in it only a few years, from which I infer that 
it was not greatly popular with my elders, my mother prob- 
ably agreeing with my aunt, who wanted ‘nothing pictur- 
esque and inconvenient in Aer life.’ ‘I’m sick to death of 
ancestral things,’ she used to say crisply. ‘I want a nice, 
new, spick-and-span, vulgar house, where I can raise my 
own rats and cockroaches.’ My father accordingly built 
a nice, new, what we should call nowadays a vulgar, house: 


26 | MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE © 


a square box with a mansard toof, a belvedere on the top, — 
and a bay window at the side. This we lived in all during | 
my early childhood and youth. 

It was an ugly house according to our more artistic 
modern taste, but certainly convenient and roomy, and 
supposed at that time to be rather elegant. People were 
tired of the early American and the Colonial. My uncle, 
who lived ina really fine house, constantly refers to it in his 
letters as being very handsome. The bay window, which 
was the piece de résistance, not only in the house, but in 
the neighborhood, was naturally in the parlor, and, though 
it was not in reality very comfortable or very beautiful, 
we never realized that until real bay windows came into 
fashion again. We young people built a seat in it, rather 
high and rather hard, and draped a shawl over one end of 
it. People who were building new houses came and stood 
outside and admired it, called it artistic, and went home 
and built other uncomfortable spots just like it. 


CHAPTER II 
DAN FRENCH’S FIRST APPEARANCE IN MY LIFE 


‘AND some have greatness thrust upon them.’ As I look 
back upon my life, I seem always to have basked in some 
one else’s reflected glory. For years of my youth, I was 
Harry French’s sister. Then, after many years, I was 
Dan French’s wife, and after a still longer period, when I 
dined out, I was sometimes greeted by the query, ‘Are you 
Peggy French’s mother?’ 

In the years before this, I must have begun to hear about 
my cousin, Daniel Chester French, or, as he was called, not 
only at that time, but all through his life, ‘Dan’ French. 
He was ten years older than I, and he had always, even as 
a child, come to Washington in the days before I was born, 
but the chronology of my earlier acquaintance with him 
is sadly mixed. 

When I was ten years old, I went with my father to 
Concord, Massachusetts, where lived all my relations, and 
here for the first time — at least the first time to remember 
— I met my cousin Dan French. He was about nineteen, 
and was living with his family in the old house, and had 
just started in upon his career as a sculptor. Fortunately 
for him, his father, Judge French, was a cultured man of 
a literary turn of mind, and interested in following up any 
artistic tendencies in his children. Some years before, Miss 
May Alcott had given Dan the tools with which to work, 
and he had already made a number of busts — his father, 
his sister, etc. 


28 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


His father, when Dan was only sixteen, had brought 
home a large package of clay from Boston, and the two 
boys, Dan and Will, had sat about the table in the even- 
ing, and tried, unaided, to turn the clay into statues. His 
brother Will, who was cleverly artistic in many directions, 
experimented and made various small things, going 
quickly from one to another, while Dan, with perhaps a 
more sculpturesque talent, tried to make one head which 
he stuck to persistently the whole evening, which, as I 
think of it, was characteristic of him. They did not know, 
however, how to manage the clay, how to keep it soft, so 
nothing came of it. 

Also, at an earlier time, they had made some snow lions 
in the front yard of their house in Cambridge. They had 
lived in Cambridge for some years, and it was there that 
Dan had formed his boyish friendships with William 
Brewster, the ornithologist, and with Richard H. Dana — 
friendships which have remained through their entire lives. 

These lions — I believe it was a grown lion and a small 
one — attracted a great deal of attention. In fact, on 
Sunday morning after church, the street was quite packed 
with returning church-goers who clustered about the fence 
in apparently absorbed interest, though my husband al- 
ways disclaimed any large part in the creation of this work 
of art. ‘They were the work,’ he said, ‘of my older brother 
and a friend.’ 

I remember that he tried to make a head or relief of me, 
but I was an unappreciative little person, nor could I for 
one moment keep still, and he finally gave it up in despair. 

His first work of art pleased me as a child, as it does now. 
In an old scrapbook is a small square of folded paper. In 
the middle of the paper is a large spotted bird gazing at 


aAYy Jo adv oy} ye « PAI SIY2 9301M YuSIY otuurq, 
HONG UALSHHD IAINVG JO LUV JO MUOM LSaIt 


DAN FRENCH’S FIRST APPEARANCE = 29 


something that might be a cross, or, to a bird, might even 
look like a tree. Underneath is written in his mother’s fine 
writing, ‘Danny French wrote this bird.’ This, at his re- 
quest, at the age of five. 

Another of Judge French’s letters says: ‘Dan Bakes up 
and goes to bed smiling.’ And there is a beautiful daguer- 
reotype, taken at about the time he ‘wrote’ his first work 
of art, that seems to express a youthful optimism: a little 
boy of five in an embroidered dress slipping from his 
shoulders, curls, and a most engaging smile — which was 
unusual in the long exposure of a daguerreotype. He was 
gazing ecstatically, so they say, upon a small yellow 
canary, held aloft by the photographer’s assistant; enough 
to make any child laugh with glee. 

_ Years after, when I showed this picture to my child, she 
sat up in bed, gazing at it a long time, having just had her 
own picture taken, and said, ‘That’s Margit,’ as she then 
called herself. | 4 

‘Oh, no,’ d said, ‘that isn’t Margit. You will have to 
guess again.’ 

Again she gazed upon oe and said “a conviction, 

“Well, if it isn’t Margit, it’s papa when he was a little girl.’ 

Mr. William French, to whom the optimism of his 
younger brother greatly appealed, used to tell another 
story about him. ; 

“One morning when Dar was six or seven years old, he 
picked up the cat, remarking, “I guess I’ll take my cat and 
go down cellar and catch a rat.” 

“He disappeared down the cellar stairs and in a few 
minutes returned with the cat still in his arms, and, to the 
surprise of the family, a rat in the mouth of the cat. 

“While this was unaccountable to the onlookers, it 


30 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


seemed perfectly simple to small Daniel. He had noticed 
that, whenever he went into the milk cellar, a rat had 
sought a hiding-place behind a box in the corner, and it 
occurred to him that ifhe brought his cat and set her down 
close to the box, and then moved the box, she would do the 
rest — which she did. Then he picked up the cat again, 
and that was all there was about it.’ | 

It did not surprise him as much as it would have later 
in life that his scheme worked out so easily; perhaps his 
faith had something to do with it. 


My trip to Concord was, of course, a great event to 
small me; travelling was unusual in those days, and most of 
my life and of that of my family was spent, and most of the 
associations of my childhood—a wonderfully happy 
childhood — were with that new house on North Carolina 
Avenue, with its bay window, its large grounds with cherry 
and other fruit trees, its stray cats and dogs, the brothers 
and the darkies. My mother was a kind of fairy godmother 
to all the children and all the colored people in the neigh- 
borhood, and they came to her and laid their j joys and sor- 
rows at her feet. 

The brothers were getting to be big boys now, although 
there were three younger than I, and a baby sister, and our 
place succeeded the common as a playground for the 
neighborhood. It was large, what afterwards comprised a 
whole city block, and we lived there like little savages, 
climbing up and tumbling out of trees, swinging in swings, 
exercising our limbs on what we called ‘ paralyzed’ (paral- 
lel) bars, eating cherries and half-ripe fruit. My mother 
said we began on the currants and gooseberries when they 
were nothing but blossoms. 


DAN FRENCH’S FIRST APPEARANCE 31 


We went to a Presbyterian Sunday School, not because 
of any affiliations with Presbyterianism, but because Dr, 
Chester, the minister, was, as may be a stray pastor of any 
denomination, one of the saints of the earth. 

Although my father’s family was of good New England 
stock, there was little Puritanism in our bringing-up. Of 
course there was a devil and a hell somewhere in the back- 
ground, of which, nowadays, we hear but little, but they 
were far less terrible in our household than in many which 
I afterwards came to know. I do remember lying awake 
at night in my little bed, the moonlight staring down at 
me through the window, and wondering whether I would 
have to go to hell when I died, but I am quite sure the at- 
tack was sporadic, and I am also quite sure that my bro- 
thers had no such fears. You can never tell about tastes, 
and what may have been at times a horror to me was to 
them a delicious thrill; with their active, full-blooded little 
personalities, they probably needed a modicum of horrors 
as a stimulant. 
| One of them, Ned, the one who in his earlier youth had 
taken to swearing, leaned against my mother’s side, recit- 
ing his catechism, ‘God is my Father,’ etc., and then 
squirming around against her shoulder, ‘Oh, don’t bother 
with that part, Mamma,’ he cried cheerfully; ‘turn over 
to the other part ’bout hell and brimstone.’ 

_ Indeed, the brothers seemed to revel in religious hor- 
tors and the doings of the church, whatever they were, 
and a rule was made in our family that no boy who had not 
been to Sunday School for a certain number of weeks dur- 
ing the fall should be permitted to go, suddenly and vio- 
lently, the last few Sundays before Christmas; which rule 
Seemed to imply a good normal appreciation of the Christ- 
mas tree and the Christmas stocking, 


32 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


The city, as I look back upon it, was at this time losing 
some of its bare aspect; the banks growing over with grass, 
the streets beginning to look like streets, and the whole 
place planted with trees, rows and rows of slender straight 
saplings, each one surrounded by a ‘tree-box,’ a little 
prison-like structure of wooden slats, higher than the head 
of a man. The improvements of the city, the cutting 
through of the avenues, the laying-out of parks, the 
planting of thousands and thousands of trees was the work 
of one of our public officials named Shepherd — ‘Boss’ 
Shepherd every one called him — and the term came to be 
an execration upon the lips of at least the younger gener- 
ation. Of course the city was going to be beautiful some- 
time, but the process was devastating. The taxes went up 
and up until families were impoverished. In my father’s | 
case, for instance, who owned a city block, lot after lot had 
to be sold to pay these exorbitant taxes. * 

An old Washingtonian said to me the other day, ‘Do 
you remember how we all hated Boss Shepherd?’ Perhaps 
the older people had some glimpse of the good behind the 
evil, but we children took the condemnation literally. 
This man, whom I always heard spoken of with bitterness, 
was not a man, he was a fiend, a half mysterious worker of 
evil who had cast an unholy spell over the lives of our 
elders. I have heard of late that a statue — somewhere, 
by somebody — has been erected to Shepherd as a bene- 
factor, a fact which has made one person, who has lived 
long enough to follow this very gradual change of face, 
everlastingly doubtful as to the infallibility of contempo- 
rary judgment. 

As I said before, the street had begun to blossom out 
with foliage from the trees so ignominiously planted. Even 


DAN FRENCH’S FIRST APPEARANCE 33 


though they were new and small, they began to make the 
city beautiful, but the spot where the trees always seemed 
most beautiful to me was my Uncle Major’s house on 
East Capitol Street. It was a large brick house standing 
back from the street, with rooms upon either side of the 
hall, and surrounded by old-fashioned grounds. These 
grounds, while in no way magnificent, were quaint in the 
accepted Colonial style. There was a long grape arbor; 
there were walks with box hedges leading to the summer 
house and the croquet ground; there was a sundial, and 
what to us seemed like a fairy creation, a fountain, tier 
after tier of dripping water, and at times a plank leading 
in from the outer edge to the lower basin, a most fasci- 
nating bridge which we children were forbidden to cross. 
This fountain now stands in the garden of the Major’s 
grandson, Mr. Amos Tuck French, in Tuxedo. 

On a small lawn in a jog at the back of the house was 
a wrought-iron table with a marble top and six wrought- 
iron chairs, the former of which stands at present in our 
garden at “Chesterwood.’ But the thing which we all 
loved best was the great magnolia tree — Magnolia grandi- 
Jiora — which is usually seen in its glory only in the South. 
This particular tree, however, though there were others in 
the garden, was by far the most luscious and perfect 
example of its kind in Washington, its great pointed pol- 
ished leaves and tall vaselike flowers reaching upward to 
the sky. 

To us children, they seemed like enchanted blossoms, 
and to pick one or two upon occasion, and to send them off 
to our relations in New England, who had never seen them, 
was like a function, of which one of my big brothers was 
the high priest. He would mount upon the stepladder—the 


34 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


branches must not be bent or pulled — and snip off with 
great care the end of a spray, two or three leaves surround- 
ing a velvet flower. He would press the leaves up carefully 
about the waxy blossom, wrap them in tissue paper, and 
tie them gently into place, we children gazing fascinated, 
as if it were some rare jewel, as indeed it was. The slightest 
pressure brought out a deep brown stain upon the white 
petals. The end of the juicy stem was enveloped in a wad 
of wet cotton, or, better still, planted in a hole made in — 
the bisected surface of a large potato, which was supposed 

to supply moisture for days; then the whole thing was 
packed in a box of loose tissue paper, and was received next 
evening by our friends in Massachusetts or New Hamp- 
shire in perfect condition. For years after the Library of 
Congress was built, this great magnolia tree stood in the 
Library grounds; but so much building in its vicinity was 
probably bad for it, and a few years ago it disappeared. 

I spent so much of my time in this house that it seemed 

quite as much my home as the square box of a house with 
a bay window, where I grew up with my family. And, 
Dan French, when he came back from Italy in 1875, apent 
several winters in this romantic home. 
_ My uncle’s second wife was my mother’s sister; her 
name was Mary Ellen, but we children called her ‘Laine.’ 
They were without small children and would have adopted 
me, but my father and mother, for some reason, having 
only seven other little treasures of their own, were unwill- 
ing to give me up. 

I loved the house dearly, a link between the grand old 
places of the neighborhood, like ‘Duddington’— still in 
a state of dying glory — and the newer architecture of my 
growing years. The parlor was especially beautiful; a long 


TON ee ee ee ee 


DAN FRENCH’S FIRST APPEARANCE © 3 


room with two fireplaces, a soft grey paper sparsely dotted 
with tiny gold medallions and floating ribbons, and with 
what we called ‘vanishing’ mirrors, between the windows 
at each end, and resplendent with red damask. This dam- 
ask had come from the Supreme Court. When the Court 
was refurnished, my uncle, being on the spot, had bought 
the damask. The remnants still decorate our living-room 
at “Chesterwood.’ 

The curtains in the old parlor had gold metal lambre- 
quins across the top, and, halfway down, great gold orna- 
ments to drape them back. All the chairs and ottomans 
were covered with the damask, and two rosewood sofas, 
the backs going up in points at each end, and sagging in 
the middle like a broken-backed horse, but delicate and 
carved, not like most of the horsehair furniture of the 
day. 

The round mirrors between the red curtains at either 
end of the room were also a source of great amusement to 
us children. They were convex, with glass prisms, and 
had a curious way of enlarging and decreasing the reflected 
image, and we used to stand in the great silent room — 
all parlors are more or less silent — moving slowly back- 
ward and forward, making faces, sticking out our tongues, 
and distorting our bodies in noisy delight. | 
_ Over the door of the library, across the hall, hung, dur- 
ing my childhood, the long clay pipe with which my aunt, 
when a little girl, had been presented by Andrew Jackson 
for the purpose of blowing soapbubbles, but I am quite 
sure it was never used except as a decoration. 

My uncle must have been a very interesting personage 
— very much beloved. He was a lawyer, but held various 
public positions, Marshal, Commissioner of Public Build- 


36 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


ings, and others which brought him in touch with interest- 
ing people. He cared little about positions of great re- 
sponsibility. ‘They talk,’ he writes upon one occasion, 
‘of making me Attorney-General. I don’t want to be At- 
torney-General. I want to be Marshal.’ He liked to ride 
a horse, like a child to be in the midst of things. He was 
the first President of the Morse Telegraph Company, or, 
as they called it, the Magneto Telegraph, and was a Mason 
of the thirty-third degree. As I remember him, he always 
seemed to me a jolly, plump ‘Colonel Newcome.’ He was 
tender-hearted, impetuous, violent of speech, with a vio- 
lence at which we children smiled because it was so frankly 
of a surface nature. He was pleased by the most trivial 
attentions; he was moved by the most barefaced tale of 
distress. | 
He was greatly given to swearing, as were many of the 
men of that period. I believe it has become rather a lost 
art in these days, except upon the golf links, where I hear 
it is still rampant. There were stories about his swearing 
in which even at that time we delighted. He would say of 
his most dignified first wife, “Betsy told me she’d be 
damned if she’d do any such thing,’ and then, when he 
realized how he was misquoting her, he would laugh and 
add, ‘Wasn’t that the way you expressed it, Betsy dear?’ 
On another occasion, also, when his attention was called 
to some urchins who were swearing in front of the house, 
he called to them from the window, telling them to stop — 
and go away. Not being obeyed, he shook his fist at them, 
hurried from the house, down the steps, gesticulating and 
muttering along the walk, and some one watching him al- 
ways claimed that he admonished them: ‘If you little devils 
don’t stop that swearing, I’ll knock your damned little 


DAN FRENCH’S, FIRST APPEARANCE 37 


heads together,’ which must sisrheges have had the de- 
sired effect. | 

His standard of swearing must hive been high, for he 
used to quote a friend from the wilds of New Hampshire 
who seemed overwhelmed at the sight of him. ‘Why, God 
damn your soul to hell, French, but I’m glad to see you,’ 
retold the Major with glee. 

One of the things that I associate with my uncle’s place 
are the clothes that people wore. I was very fond of 
clothes, and, quite naturally, croquet being the fashionable 
game, the young people wore their prettiest gowns upon 
the croquet ground. Every one had croquet greens of their 
own, but by far the most attractive in that part of town 
was the one in the old garden at my uncle’s place. All the 
young people of the family and the neighborhood congre- 
gated there. It was a secluded oblong of green sward, two 
sides shut in by trellises and close-clipped trees, one side 
open to the fountain and box-bordered hedges, and at the 
end towards the front, the fascinating summer house, vine- 
covered, a screaming eagle at the top, a marble table and 
iron chairs inside, where my uncle, shaded from the blazing 
sun, loved to sit and write. 

_ They played with long-handled mallets in those days, 
which made the women look tall and dignified, not the 
club-footed things of modern years with which one must 
stoop ungracefully to get a shot. I do not know how many 
times a week they gathered there, nor how many years the 
custom lasted, but to me, a child, that croquet ground was 
a fashion pageant throughout my early years: There were 
hoop-skirts, bustles, chignons, hug-me-tights, sontags, 
Leghorn hats, all a good deal of a jumble to me — but that 
is the beauty of memoirs. You don’t have to be too ac- 


38 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


curate, they are only memoirs after all; if you wait long 
enough all the people who know more about things than 
you do will be dead — and the memories of a child are 
necessarily fleeting glimpses. The hoop-skirts passed by in 
varying styles, some of them bell-shaped, some just flaring; 
then there was the full skirt hanging limp with a Garibaldi 
waist, loose and comfortable, such as my sister wore as 

a ‘flapper’ of 1870. 

There was also, evidently, such a thing as a hoop-skirt 
cover, which I only faintly remember, but to which my — 
uncle referred as an everyday event. “Mary Ellen is 
making a hoop-skirt cover,’ he writes, “and wants me to 
put in 100 or so eyelets, which I suppose I shall do. She 
made one when George Keyes was here and he put in the 
eyelets. I did not see him doing it till he had half of them 
done — and ¢hen I told him all he had put in would come 
out, he made the holes so large, so he put in the rest agree- 
able to my suggestions, Well, all he put in at first, came 
out accordingly, and those he put in under my instruction, 
stayed! So you see I am somebody yet!’ 


When the loose blouses turned suddenly into basques, ~: 


there was a storm of criticism, I understand, and they 
must have indeed seemed immodest after years of dissimu- 
lation as to busts, hips, and contours generally. 

There were bustles both then and later, and I remember 
my sister at the time when these excrescences were at their 
height complaining because, at the end of a two-mile walk 
up Pennsylvania Avenue, amid the élite of Washington 
life, she had discovered a torn and twisted letter reposing 
upon her bustle, dropped there by a brother as a parting 
touch as she had left the house! 

Then there were chignons, and buns, and waterfalls, 


Fe a ae re IS OO ee 


1 ET ey ee ee See ee 


DAN FRENCH’S FIRST APPEARANCE 39 


cascades of curls down the back of the head, and bands of 
black velvet like stockades about the neck, and the older 
people all saying, ‘Absurd — why will you make yourselves 
look like frights?’ The chignons I remember as a special 
achievement. They were small things made of horsehair, 
round and rather flat like a bun, and one of the older girls 
would sit in front of the bureau, her hair drawn back and 
tied, this excrescence pinned into place, and the hair 


_ smoothed carefully, very carefully, over it — the smoother 


the hair, the more of a success the operation. As to the 
waterfalls, they were very beautiful, those soft fluffy curls, 
not too long; and now and then a girl would take one of 
them off and casually lay it aside by way of amusement for 
the boys, as did Miss Ethel Barrymore in ‘Captain Jinks,’ 
a good many years later. 

And little bonnets like wreaths, higher in front above the 
forehead, and growing narrow back of the ears, and tied 
under the chin; and absurd little straw hats tilting for- 


ward and kicking up in the back, the space in the rear 


filled in with loops of ribbon. And Leghorns, of course — 
Maud Muller hats, which seemed to come and go through- 
out my entire youth. 

But the one thing amid all these changing fashions that 
remains the most vivid in my mind is the Grecian Bend. 


_ Of this I claim to be a connoisseur, for my aunt Sarita, my 


youthful aunt, being a young woman of marked person- 
ality, was nothing if not extreme. Other people wore them, 
of course, but it is hers that I see before me. She was a 
slight little creature with a beautiful figure. In the first 
place, her shoes, or, as we then called them, boots, were 
high-heeled, laced, with little tassels dangling at the top. 
The satin skirt almost to the boots was rather scant and in 


40 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


broad stripes of purple and black. Over this were black 
satin panniers at the side, and four great puffs at the back — 
tied in with whalebone hoops to keep them in place and 
make them stand out. How any one ever sat down in such 
a harness I do not remember! The black satin sleeves were 
long and tight, and the waist like a basque. Upon the head 
—at least upon my aunt’s head — was a low Alpine hat, 
with a red plume going up the front, purling across the 
crown and down the back of the head, one small curl peep- 
ing out behind the ear, under the chignon. 

Of course the art of the whole effect was what the wearer 
put into it. The body was held straight, tilted slightly 
forward, the head erect, elbows drawn in at the waist-line, 
hands held out in front, dropping sharply at the wrist so 
that they dangled, so to speak, when the owner moved. 

There was no tea in those days, but the darkies brought 
out big glass pitchers of lemonade — those seething after- 
noons — and during the season big pails of cherries, great 
black cherries and red-and-white wax-hearts, which every 
one ate and survived, although my father called them 
‘cholera-parties.’ 

My uncle loved to sit in the summer house when he was 
not playing the game, and watch the young people. Some- 
times his wife sat by him sewing, sometimes he wrote, and, 
upon a bench upon one side of the green, a little girl, too, 
loved to sit— they were a good deal alike in their childish 
~ hearts — her long legs in white stockings and ankle ties 
dangling almost to the ground, her hoop-skirt tilting about 
in every direction. At the neck of her loose Garibaldi waist 
was a tiny gold pin encircling the braided hair of some de- 
funct ancestor, and made especially for her childish stature. 


Upon each side of her face were large flat curls that had 


DAN FRENCH’S FIRST APPEARANCE 41 


been moistened and brushed over somebody’s finger. Her 
hands were clasped in her lap when they were not holding 
_ the recalcitrant hoop-skirt in place, her eyes glued upon 
the passing show! 

The wonderful clothes, the flitting figures of her growne 
up friends enthralled her. It seemed to her, especially 
during the ‘Bend’ period, the acme of all the fashions of 
the world. In later years, many, many years later, when 
she shuts her eyes and thinks about it, the exaggerated 
figures darting about, stooping, bending, hopping after the 
little balls —it seems to her a good deal like a garden 
party of well-dressed kangaroos! as the brothers were in- 

clined to call them. 


When I was about ten years old, this dear uncle died, 
and I must have grieved for him, his death must have been 
a great loss in my life, but the thing that I remember best 
about it was the magnificence of his funeral — the great- 
est, I have been told, except Lincoln’s, that was ever held 
in Washington. He was very high up as a Grand Master 
Mason — the thirty-third degree — besides being a public 


_ man, My mind is a jumble of bands and soldiers and police 


and regalia, of crowds in front of the house, and surging 
crowds in the streets. All Capitol Hill, I believe, and a 
large part of Washington turned out. | 
The scene must have been impressive, aside from the 
fact that I was but ten years old, an impressionable age. 
The ceremonies at the house and at the church over, we 
did not reach the cemetery until seven o’clock. From the 
entrance to the grave, a distance of perhaps two city 
blocks, was a line of Masons, three deep, their heads un- 
covered, their great plumed hats in their hands, their or- 


42 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


ders, their swords unsheathed, and at the far end a group of 
people standing about the open grave with bowed heads, 
the whole scene lighted by candlelight. The mournful 
music, the fitful flickering of lights, the pervasive sense of 
mystery, the minister’s solitary voice breaking the great 
silence! 

This I only half remember, but the picture stays with | 
me — the crowded streets from the City Hall up Capitol 
Hill, and out to the cemetery, two miles of impenetrable 
human beings, and of little me, sitting very still in the first 
carriage, my hand clasped in the hand of my aunt, my 
white dress and Leghorn hat — this time with black band 
and black streamers — watching them close to the carriage 
window, and wondering if they knew who I was and what 
an important part I was of the programme! "And such is 
the gratitude of childhood! 


CHAPTER IV 
CONVENT AND CONCORD 


Goop-sYE to my childhood! At fourteen, I went away to 
school at the Convent of the Visitation at Georgetown, 
where my mother, my aunt, and an older sister had been 
before me, and where at the time lived, as a nun, a cousin 
of my mother, Sister Mary Blandina. 

My girlhood, as I look back upon it, seems to have con- 
sisted chiefly of my life at the convent, or in Concord, 
Massachusetts, where I visited the summer of my nine- 
teenth year. I had been there once or twice as a child, but 
it was in this later and longer visit that I came to know 
this wonderful place and remember it. 

Those years at the convent were very like the years of 
most young girls at school, or at least at convent schools, 
very vital to me, but certainly of no universal interest. I 
loved the nuns and I loved Catholicism, as I saw it there in 
all its simple beauty, American nuns, American character, 
which I suppose I understood. Later, when I went to 
Rome and saw churchmen in their gorgeous robes talking 
frankly about the temporal power of the Pope, I was 
shocked. The very suggestion of an idea that any one could 
in this late day of the world’s history consider a possibility 
of religious domination was something that quite took 
away from the chatm which Catholicism in America, or at 
least among my American friends, had held for me. I felt 
as if I wanted to go right back to my convent and tell 
those dear unworldly nuns about it. I knew they would 
dislike it quite as much as I. 


44 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


They were, many of them, charming women, as different 
in character and type as were my friends of the world: 
lovely Sister Loyola, who seemed to be always kneeling 

around on some stairway, on some gallery before a picture 
or a statue, her delicate inspired face uplifted looking like 
a Fra-Angelico angel, only much more beautiful. We used 
to tease her — she was only a young girl like ourselves — 
and tell her that she did it because she knew how lovely 
she looked; but we knew at the time that this was not so, 
for she was a radiant, joyous, inspired kind of saint. 

I was at the convent at the time that this Sister Loyola 
took the black veil, the only ceremony of the kind which I 
ever remember seeing. She had been there among us wear- 
ing a white veil for many months — I have forgotten how 
long 1s the novitiate; but we had known and seen her daily, 
and had admired her for a long time, and it made the cere- 
mony all the more poignant to see this young woman, our 
friend, so suddenly shut away from us. | 

We all knelt in our little chapel, row after row of girls in 
white veils, the altar ablaze with candles, the priests mov- 
ing about in their gorgeous robes, and behind the great 
grill, which filled, as I recall it, the whole left side of the 
altar, and back of it the little black figure of the nun. I do 
not remember the details of the ceremony, but it is still a 
vivid, almost tragic picture in my mind: the small kneeling 
figure, the long dark tresses cut off and laid aside, the dark 
boyish head, and in the background the rows of kneeling 
nuns, chanting, chanting — going on and on, stopping and 
going on again, that weird monotonous music floating up 
from the kneeling figures, drifting about the small young 
novice, enveloping her, as if, it seemed to me, those weird 
chanting notes were casting some incantation about her, 


THE LINCOLN STATUE IN THE MEMORIAL AT WASHINGTON 


ii il ee re i eee 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 45 


drawing out, from the very depths of her, all that was hu- 
man, and vital, and womanly. 

Sister Fidelis, the other nun whom I loved best, was of 
an entirely different type; intellectual, witty, practical, so 
practical that we girls used to say to her sometimes, ‘Oh, 
Sister, you are not the least bit like a nun.’ 

“Sh! Sh!’ she would admonish us, trying to keep her 
eyes from twinkling, ‘that’s no compliment. I want to be 
like a nun,’ ignoring our further comment — ‘Well, you’re 
not, even if you do try.’ 

It was she also who used to warn us, ‘It’s all very well, 
my dears, but, if there were a novitiate to matrimony as 
there is to the religious life, there would be as few brides as 
there are nuns.’ 


When I was about sixteen, my cousin Dan came home 
from Europe and came with my young aunt Sarita to see 
me. I remember it perfectly, the first time I definitely re- 
member him, in that square box of a convent parlor, the 
high room painted a gloomy brown, with horsehair furni- 
ture, and one entire side a square lattice, through which 
now and then a nun was permitted to talk to a friend. 
Dan was twenty-six, and, I thought, very handsome. It 
was romantic to tell to my school fellows of this new 
cousin, a sculptor — an unknown quantity in those days 
in Washington — who had lived abroad. He had just come 
back from his studies in Mr. Ball’s studio in Florence, and 
spent the next two winters in Washington, where, though 
I saw him little, he brought a new and artistic touch into 
my life. 

‘When I read of Raphael, ‘whom the Gods loved and 
whom women loved,’ I have often thought that my artist 


46 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


was at least born with a golden spoon in his mouth. Of 
sturdy New England stock, a race of lawyers back of him, — 
with an intellectual environment certainly unequalled in 
American life, Dan French seems never to have encoun- 
tered the struggles of poverty and misunderstanding 
which have been considered — which he theoretically 
considered — as necessary to the development of genius. 

His father was a judge, his two grandfathers were law- 
yers — one of them Chief Justice of the State of New 
Hampshire — while his life, during the most crucial years, 
was spent amid the ‘high thinking and plain living’ of Old 
Concord. 

It was a simple and interesting life when I came to know 
it a few years later, but just before that time, while he was 
growing up, while his first statue, the ‘Minute Man,’ was 
coming into life, and during his two years in Italy in the 
studio of Mr. Ball, it must have been, as I gather from his 
father’s letters, filled with an atmosphere of high purpose 
that was unusual as well as of great intellectual interest. 

There was at that time in New England but little art — 
as art — but there was a love, as represented in old prints 
and engravings, a reverence for old furniture and for all 
inherited worth, that was at least appreciative. | 
- In Concord there was small need of money, small am- 
bition for purely worldly success, and Dan French, with 
an absorbing interest in the worth-while things of life, 
cared little, even at that period, for aught save to be left 
alone to work out his newly discovered vision of art. 

His father wrote often for the magazines, was a man of 
literary attainments, and welcomed eagerly the first 
glimpse of anything like genius in his children. His family, 
who had probably never seen a sculptor in their lives, were 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 47 


amazed and interested, and his fellow townspeople, con- 
trary to the old adage that a prophet is never honored in 
his own country, immediately decided that something like 
a miracle had happened in their midst, that this young 
product of their beloved town was going to be the greatest 
sculptor of all ages. 

When it was finally decided that he was to go abroad to 
pursue his studies, Miss Lucy Barrett tells how she was 
busying herself one morning in the dining-room, prepara- 
tory to breakfast, when the milkman drove up to the 
kitchen door, ) 

‘Hello,’ he cried — he was probably her friend, for all 
classes were friends in those days in Concord — and, as 
she hurried to the window, ‘Heard the news? You'll be 
interested. Dan French is going to Europe, going down to 
Italy — to be an artist.’ | 

How could any young worker fail to ‘carry on,’ followed 
thus by the sympathy and understanding of his towns- 
people? 3 

Many of his neighbors, naturally enough, knew nothing 
whatever as to sculpture or of any art, but their interest 
was undoubted. One of them, a carpenter who had made a 
pedestal for him, took great pride in what he was doing, 
especially in the fact that he was working for and with his 
talented young fellow townsman. After he had brought it 
to the studio, and placed upon it the marble head of the 
woman for which it had been made, he seemed greatly 
impressed with the success of his achievement, stood off 
and admired it, and finally said, ‘Well, you know, I must 
admit that that head does kind of set off the pedestal — 
fine!’ 

And another one decided, after careful consideration of a 


48 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


canine group just finished, that it did ‘look mcenesonii. 
like a dog, you know.’ 

But the greatest assistance of any acighboeeal friend 
came to Mr. Potter — Mr. Edward C. Potter — who at 
his studio in Enfield was working upon the horse for the 
equestrian statue which he and Mr. French afterwards set 
up in Paris. One of his neighbors came in to see it and was 
greatly interested. He came a number of times, studied it 
from different angles, and finally, one day, he made a 
speech. 

‘That’s a fine horse,” he meditated, ‘a fine horse. Andi it 
looks a good deal /ike a horse. There’s only one thing 
about it, that — well, could be improved. It needs some- 
thing and I really believe I could help you. You see, it’s 
this way. I used to be a taxidermist, and I got a whole box 
of glass eyes left over down to my place, and, if you'd let 
me, I’d bring up a couple and just slip ’em in, and you 
don’t know how it would improve that horse. Why: it 
would make him look as if he was alive!’ 

The first story that I remember of Dan French’s coming 
to the surface was when he was perhaps seventeen years of 
age. It has been told many times in print, sometimes 
rather to his distaste, but it is certainly a part of his youth 
and has its place. He and a group of young people — my 
sister, my cousins, and others of the neighborhood — were 
seated before the fire telling stories and diverting them- — 
selves by eating raw turnips. Dan amused himself by 
carving his turnip into a statuette of a frog, ‘the frog that 
would awooing go,’ in frock coat, etc. The young people 


were amused and interested, and finally his mother ex- | 


claimed, ‘Why, Dan, you’re a genius! There’s a real like- 
ness in that.’ 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 49 


At that time there was no art school or art class in 
Boston, but he frequented the Athenzeum and studied the 
Greek casts there, modelled for a short time with J. Q. A. 
Ward in New York, and for a while in Boston with Dr. 
Rimmer, whose recognition as a sculptor, he always 
claimed, was not commensurate with his achievements. 
Rimmer was a very great draughtsman, and to him in 
after years Mr. French attributed the solid foundation of 
his work. Miss May Alcott, who had recently come back 
from her studies in Europe, did much to help him, both 
with her sympathy and with her tools. There was probably 
not a shop in Boston which at that time would have known 
what a sculptor’s tool meant. 

‘Father talked to May Alcott about my newly developed 
interest in sculpture,’ I have heard Dan tell many times in 
later life, ‘and she said, ‘‘If he will come down to see me, I 
will lend him some tools.” I tell you I lost no time. I 
harnessed old Bucephalus, hurried down to the other end 
of the town, learned what I could in a short call, and 
brought a handful of tools back in triumph. One of these 
crude wooden implements I have always by me and am 
using it to this day.’ 

_ When it was decided that he was to go to Italy to study, 
people often asked why he went to Florence instead of to 
Paris, and I have heard him answer that Italy had hap- 
pened to come his way, but that he had always wished that 
he could have gone to Paris and to the schools there earlier 
than he did, which was some ten years later. 

“Would it have been better if you had gone to Paris?’ I 
have heard people ask him, and his answer has been that 
that was a question that was hard to be sure of, that, if a 
man succeeded pretty well in life, it was probable that the 


so MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


things that had come to him were the sie that were best 
for his development. 

- The winter before, he had come to know, in Bésteall 
young Preston Powers, the son of Hiram Powers, whose 
‘Greek Slave’ had just made a triumphant pilgrimage 
through the country. When the two young men had first 
talked about Italy, Preston said, ‘Come over to Florence 
and live with us,’ and young French, in the easy-going 
spirit in which the invitation was offered, accepted. It 
was only years afterwards, when the Powers family had 
adopted him into the family circle, that he discovered 
that Preston’s wife and mother-in-law had been quite 
overwhelmed at the idea of an unknown American com- 
ing to settle down indefinitely in their household. 

Our family were always great letter-writers. They 
seemed to pour out their ideas, their comments, their news 
of the day to each other, in whatever part of the globe they 


found themselves, and it is through these letters of Judge _ 


French to his son in Italy that we gather much of the 
atmosphere of the Concord of those days. 

Judge French’s letters to his son, and all through those 
of a longer period to his brother in Washington, even 
though full of the troubles and tragedies of family life and 
the gravity of public problems, are pervaded, as was his 
conversation, by an undercurrent of rippling humor, as if 
each little episode would yield its incongruity if you just 
looked at it long enough and steadily enough. The glimpse 
of such little incongruities seemed to greatly please him, 
and I think these anecdotes of Judge French are interesting 
-as part of the background of a sculptor. i 

Once, when addressing a distinguished audience, his 
memory suddenly failed him. He said, afterwards, that 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 51 


almost in the middle of a sentence he was conscious that 
his mind was suddenly a blank. For the life of him, he 
couldn’t remember what he had said, or what he wanted to 
say, in fact what it was he was talking about. He knew he 
must say something, and so he leaned forward and smiled 
down at the listening front row. 

“Will one of you gentlemen,’ he asked confidingly, ‘be 
good enough to tell me just what my last sentence was?’ 
After a moment’s suspense, one of the men repeated the 
sentence, I have quite forgotten what it was all about, and 
Judge French took it up and went on with it, as if nothing 
had happened. 

_ At another time, when he was a younger man — we al- 
ways loved these stories in the family — he tried a case in 
court, which he won, and about a year later he found him- 
self trying a very similar case before the same Judge, but on 
this occasion he was on the other side. In the midst of his 
discourse he was rather appalled to find that he was trying 
to convince the jury of almost exactly the opposite of what 
he had preached in the same room the year before. 

And presently the storm broke. ‘Mr. French,’ said the 
judge very seriously, although the question at issue was not 
one of life and death, ‘I happen to recall that about a year 
‘ago you made a most eloquent appeal in an almost identical 
case, which I believe you won. Your eloquence at that 
time was absolutely on the other side. At that time you 
insisted upon a man’s guilt, drawn from certain evident 
deductions. Now you insist upon a man’s innocence, by 
means, if I remember aright, of almost the samé deductions. 
How do you account for this unexpected change of base?’ 

Every one waited for the discomfiture of the young 
lawyer for the defence. 


52 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


‘Well, your Honor,’ said Mr. French as seriously as he 
could bring himself to speak, ‘you see, your Honor, last 
year, I thought I was right. This year, I’ve had a whole 
year in which to learn — this year, I know I’m right.’ 

The first letter that the father ever wrote the son, at 
least after he had grown up, was written while the latter 
was on the steamer going away from home, and was filled 
with advice of a most tender and sympathetic tone. 

‘A cheap commodity,’ he calls it, ‘with which I have not 
often burdened you. You carry with you a great part of 
my life and hope.’ And later, ‘I have never felt any 
serious uneasiness about you, on sea or on land. I am sure 
you will have good luck and a good time.’ 

I don’t know whether it was in this letter to his son that 
Judge French made the inimitable suggestion that ‘a man 
might as well lead his own life, that he might as well be a 
warning to his son, as an example. Certainly easier and 
possibly quite as effective.’ 

Again, ‘he writes on fame: ‘To strive for fame and get 
nothing, is failure, but to strive for fame, though one miss 
it and yet gain wherewith to maintain one’s self-respect 
and wife and children, is as near success as one need hope 
to attain in this world of disappointment. I have observed 
always that at these unveilings the artist is usually over- 
looked. The man who pays him is prominent, and the 
foundryman who casts the figure is immortalized on the | 
base. What is the story of him who invented music, and 
returned after many years to his native city to find a — 
celebration of his music by a great procession, and was 
stoned to death because he claimed to be himself?’ 

Their own household must have been an inspiring place 
to any one interested in intellectual diversions. His father 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 53 


was a humorist of the most humorous kind; his mother 
handsome, brilliant, and entertaining; and always interest- 
ing people in and out of the house. James G. Blaine, prob- 
ably the most talked-about man in America at that time, 
was his intimate friend; Miss Dodge, or Gail Hamilton 
(Mrs. Blaine’s cousin) — it was the fashion at that time to 
write under a zom de plume — was one of their frequent 
guests, a well-known writer and a brilliant conversational- 
ist; President Eliot, who had married Mrs. French’s niece, 
were all intimates of the house; and with the choice minds 
of Concord to draw upon, Dan used to say that their 
dinner table was like fireworks. 

Miss Harriet Preston seems almost to have lived with 
- them during the years of Dan’s sojourn in Europe. His 
brother Will living in Chicago, his two sisters married, the 
older people would, otherwise, have been much alone. 
When I first saw Miss Preston, years later, she was a 
dignified blonde woman of soft charm. In the early days 
she must have been quite lovely. She was a poet, a Greek 
scholar, and a great student. Mr. Sanborn speaks of her as 
one of the best of American poets, but she was more than 
that. © 

Judge French writes: ‘Miss Preston is fine. She has a 
new edition of Virgil in three octavo vols. and reads herself 
to sleep with it, comparing it with two other editions and 
reading all the notes. And yet’ — what probably even 
more appealed to him — ‘she is a “languid blonde” as soft 
as silk, and takes a full hour to dress in the morning.’ 

_ These letters, during this period, are full of the utmost 
sympathy and enthusiasm. “Our statue,’ he always wrote; 
‘and we will get them to understand if we stick to it,’ and 
all kinds of comments and accounts as the time of the un- 


54 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


veiling drew near. “They haggle so over details, etc., but 
it will come out well in the end.’ 

There seems to have been, i in this case, one person ne 
made objections, and it is interesting to note that Judge 
Hoar immediately put him in his place, that the meeting 
applauded, and it is also interesting to find Mr. Emerson 
taking his share in the small affairs of the town with his — 
usual calm love of justice. ‘If I ask an artist,’ he said, ‘to 
make a silver bowl, and he gives me one of gold, I must not 
haggle over details.’ 

There is a good deal of badinage largely about girls. 

‘May Alcott,’ he writes, ‘has started-an art class down in 
the town. The girls go and draw and are interested in what 
she has to give them, fresh from Paris. “If I only had 
Dan French to help me,” she says, “every young woman 
in Middlesex County would be studying art!”’ 

Also — still badinage — a great deal in the way of ad- 
vice and suggestions in regard to a young woman whose ~ 
name must have often appeared in the pages of Dan’s. 
letters from Florence. ‘Is Miss Lizzie Ball as pretty as you 
think she is? Is she really a blonde, and haven’t you her 
photograph to send us? Why don’t you hurry up? But 
perhaps she wouldn’t like our cold winters.’ S 

Of course everybody insisted, both in Concord and in- 
deed in the little circle outside the Porta Romana, that — 
these two people, who were together daily, must sooner or 
later fall in love. They became ii. friends, and have 
often laughed about it since. 

“Trying to work me up,’ Dan used to say, ‘and by the 
time I had really got into a sentimental state, in the moon- 
light, I discovered that my fair friend was picking out the 
letters in the Cassiopeia Chair, because they spelled “W,” 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 55 


which was the first letter in the name “Will,” the hand- 
some young Southern sculptor who had got very far ahead 
of me.’ 

There was news and gossip of what Miss Ellen Emerson 
called “history and biography.’ ‘The Putnams are going 
to get a divorce and the town is greatly agitated about it, 
as to who shall have the baby. It seems they both want it’ 
— those things were not so stereotyped in those days as 
they are now; and Judge French’s suggestion was a good 
one that “they might as well put it off long enough to have 
another so they could divide up even.’ 

Again he writes: ‘Pamela [his wife] claimed that our 
side of the house was noisy and went over to sleep in your 
empty room. In the night she had what she called a bad 
dream, but what we suspect was a nightmare, and raised 
the house, and I had to go in, and as politely as possible, 
shake her. She has now returned to my room so as to have 
some one on the job early in the process.’ 

There are lots of little touches in the letters which show 
that Concord was very much like other small towns in its 
everyday life. ‘Poor Parson B forgot a funeral, a few 
days ago. Old Miss Ball, next the brick engine house, 
eighty years old, and a chronic member of the church, died, 
and wanted to be buried. She waited an hour and then 
sent for Mr. B » who, it seems, was at West Concord 
making calls. They finally got an old minister, a Mr. 
Grant, who did his best, but was obliged, for want of know- 
ledge of the spinster’s family, to pray for the grandchildren 
— and then, recovering, floundered along — ‘‘if such there 
be.” The hearse and the coaches had got tired of waiting, 
and had gone off and put up their horses, and Judge Brooks, 
who had charge of the affair, said, “it did seem as if the 


s6 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Devil had got into that funeral.” Mr. B ——cameat last, 
but what could he say, he had just forgotten it.’ 

Sometimes they went to the Old Manse to hear a transla- 
tion from some classic author. There were six women pre- 
sent who could read it in the original. Sometimes they 
went to the Alcotts’ of an evening to one of the famous 
‘conversations,’ interesting, but ‘a good deal like the Irish- 
man’s reciprocity, the conversation being all on one side — 
that is, Alcott did all the talking’; but they were an institu- 
tion in Concord, and Judge French always went and en- 
joyed them. 

At another time, at the same place, they gathered to 
form a literary club, ‘oddish folks,’ the letter says, ‘a sort 
of literary farmers’ association, essays, conversations, 70 
victuals, so it will never last.’ On the whole, he seemed to 
admire Alcott as did many others, notably Emerson. ‘I — 
feel,’ he says in one of his letters, ‘as if Concord people 
sometimes underestimated him. He is extraordinary. His 
remark about his daughter’s age is worthy of Plato.’ Some- 
one had apparently asked Alcott how old was Miss Louisa, - 
and his answer had been, “She has passed that age beyond 
which a woman never goes.’ 

To continue, from the letters: ‘Last night we attended 
a conversation at Mr. Emerson’s house. Rather dull! J | 
said one good thing. Mr. Alcott went on and on and on, 
with his eyes shut as is his habit, enlarging upon the 
-wonderful influence of music, the mother’s lullaby, etc., 
etc. I told him, by way of variety, that I knew a man © 
whose mother used to sing him to sleep when a baby, and 
he said he used to pretend to be asleep so as to escape the 
horrid noise.’ | 

Which reminds me of another occasion when Judge . 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 57 


French diverted the solemn discussion into a lighter chan- 
nel. Mr. Alcott and Mr. B , the minister, seemed to 
have had some discussion as to children’s souls. Mr. Alcott 
thought that children were born of the earth and later de- 
veloped. At this, Mr. B. , being a churchman, took 
umbrage. He maintained that children were always born 
of the spirit. They became somewhat excited, Mr. Alcott 
explaining long-windedly his point, Mr. B becoming 
more and more absorbed in his subject, and finally Mr. Al- 
cott apologized, in his gentle, dreamy way, and said that 
he was sorry that any animosity should have crept into 
their discussion; he had only meant to say that children 
were potential angels. At this, Judge French came to the 
rescue. He remarked that he had always noticed that in 
your own family children were potential angels, but in other 
families, they were likely to be potential devils. 


A year before the town of Concord had decided to erect 
a statue of a minute man on the battle-field by the ‘rude 
bridge that arched the flood.” The Commission appropri- 
ated one thousand dollars, and had unofficially asked Dan 
French, at that time twenty-one, to make the statue. The 
tradition in the family is that he made a sketch and took it 
down to Mr. Emerson and Judge Hoar, upon whose recom- 
mendation it was immediately accepted. 

Of course this commission was a serious thing for a youth 
whose only training had been one month in the studio of 
Mr. Ward in New York, some lessons in drawing with Dr. 
Rimmer in Brookline, a prize in the cattle show the year 
before, and some advice from Miss May Alcott. 

- JT wonder whether I can do it,’ he writes to some one. 
“By this time next year I shall know.’ 


58 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


And also his father’ s advice, ‘Go ahead, if you can t do 
it, I can show you.’ 

He made his models, the second and final one in a room 
in a business building in Boston, with a poor light. He still 
wonders how he was able to do it. | 

There was no one except a stray sculptor at that time 
who knew anything about the mechanics of the trade, so he 
and his father went to work, and his practical mechanical 
instinct carried him through, though with various catas- — 
trophes. 

When his first model was finished, they got the plaster 
ready — the amount which some one told him would be 
sufficient — made their mould, dissolved the plaster, stood 
the model on its head, and poured the molten plaster into 
it. There must have been a hole somewhere, underneath 
the hair, perhaps, for all the plaster ran through the mould 
and out upon the floor — the last drop they had — so they 
had to wait for another day when they could renew their 
supply. 

I don’t remember whether it was the ‘Minute Man’ or 
whether it was a bust made about the same time which 
gave him great trouble as to the hair. They tried in every — 
way to make it have a natural look, and finally his father — 
said, ‘Oh, take a brush and comb, and treat it the way you | 
would treat hair, and I guess it will look like hair.’ 


These early days, when the young sculptor was tryingto 


work out his problems without any of the art classes which 
in this age would pursue him, his struggles must have been 
of great interest and amusement to his family. 

When they tried to carry the bust of his father down- — 
stairs — he having made it in his room — no one knew 
how to manage it. His sister tells how the family all col- — 


THE CONCORD MINUTE 


MAN 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 59 


lected, called in the farmer, grouped themselves about the 
hallway and the staircase, reached through the banister 
railings and tried to push it, to ease it, and to hold it back, 
which they finally achieved without breaking its nose or 
crushing their own feet. 

And also how they sat around the fire in the evening, 

and Dan—this was during his studies with Dr. Rimmer — 
tried to show them what he had learned during the day. 
In an appreciative attitude of mind they all tried to copy 
what he was doing, and his father admitted that, while 
Dan’s showed no great genius, it was better than his or 
Pamela’s. 
+ He went to Italy, and his father writes him, ‘The great 
event is here, the unveiling of the statue. I’m disappointed 
that you are not coming. Hurry up with the old image 
[the ‘Endymion’]; nobody will know if it is right or wrong, 
and we want to see you.’ 

On the 11th he writes: ‘A perfect spring morning. The 
sun is bright and the air still, and the bluebirds and robins 
are talking very busily about their nests — and the coming 
19th of April. ... The old Minute Man does us credit. He 
was bare from Friday till Monday, and since Monday is 
covered. I examined him twice in the rain, and I think he 
stands pretty nearly straight, though I did not test him 
with a plumb. Your letter about that arrived too late, but 
I shall see to it and, if anybody criticises the pose, I shall 
show them why. But never fear, everybody, great and 
small, is delighted. He looks large enough for out-of-doors, 
and I think is as nice as in his native clay. I confess 
to a great thrill at the sight of D. C. French’s name on the 
base.... 

‘The little Keyes twins visited him and acted quite 


60 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


shyly. When they got home, one of them said, “We didn’t 
like him. He scowled so, and he had a gun, and we thought 
he was going to shoot us!”... 

‘Our house will be decorated, as perhaps the whole town 
will be. It will be a great day for you, and I think of you 
constantly and of your angel Mother who would so rejoice 
and perhaps does rejoice, with me over our little Dan,’ 
(They always called him ‘little Dan’ in the family.) 

‘The President is coming with most of his Cabinet, the 
Marine Band from Washington, and Lowell and Longfellow 
and Emerson in the procession — and the devil to pay 
generally.’ 

The morning was bitter cold, but there were said to be 
five thousand people at the celebration, guests of the town, 
and the whole place was turned upside down. There were 
bands and marching and speech-making. President Grant 
was there, and his Cabinet. George William Curtis was the 
orator of the day, and spoke for two mortal hours in the 
cold. They must all have been icicles. Somebody said that 
more people died of the weather on that day than had died 
in the battle which they were celebrating. 

One little incident there was that stirred up a mild 
hornet’s nest — not a difficult thing to do in Concord at 
any time. Miss Louisa Alcott climbed up upon the plat- 
form with several friends, and asked eagerly of Judge Hoar, 
“Where can we sit?’ 

Judge Hoar, hurried and harassed, probably, and not 
used at that time to the women playing a conspicuous place 
in celebrations, answered concisely, ‘Anywhere in the town 
of Concord, Miss Alcott, except upon this platform.’ 

Of course this made everybody mad with everybody 
else. The next Sunday, coming out of church, Miss Eliza- 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 61 


beth Hoar stopped and said to Judge French, ‘Everybody 
is praising your son, and everybody is abusing my brother.’ 

Of course George William Curtis said many beautiful 
things, and I recall one of his encouraging sentences in his 
speech of that day, which may seem more beautiful to read 
about here than to have listened to with shivering limbs 
and chattering teeth, on that glorious afternoon: 

“We get together, go over these old stories, of the settle- 
ment of the town, of the Revolutionary battle, of the valor 
and the patriotism of our fathers, these well-worn tales. 
Happy the people whose commonplaces are such as these.’ 

Judge French writes: ‘I rode in the first carriage, repre- 
senting you, with Judge Hoar; Emerson and Lowell, 
George William Curtis and Blaine, in the next. Was there 
ever such an occasion for an unveiling of a statue? In fact, 
Blaine says it seems as if the whole celebration was got up 
just to honor you.’ 

‘In the midst of the ceremonies’ — still from the letters 
— ‘in front of the statue, in the midst of Parson Reynolds’s 
prayer, the seat with the President and Secretaries gave 
way and settled a few inches. The minister paused, 
trusted in the Lord, and went on. After a spell, it settled 
again, but no one was hurt, and they pulled themselves to- 
gether and seemed not to mind; and the third time, during 
Curtis’s oration. But there was the beautiful outlook and 
the military music, and Emerson’s inspiring words. And 
nobody seemed to pay much attention to a President and 
some Secretaries being jolted a few inches.’ 

In the evening there was a big dinner at Judge Hoar’s: 
Grant and his Cabinet; Judge French and his house guests; 

James G. Blaine and Mrs. Blaine; Gail Hamilton; Senator 
Morrill; George William Curtis, and of course the other 


62 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


shining lights of the town. A great ball at night where the 
girls all wore Colonial dresses, and the father spent most of 
the evening receiving congratulations about the son. 

After the celebration, Judge French devoted a good deal 
of his time to looking after the interests of the absent artist. 
Small models were made of the ‘Minute Man’ many of 
which were sold, and to these he always referred as ‘The 
Minuettes.’ | 

The small group of ‘Owls making love’ had also been 
put on the market, but I think Dan had seen to that before 
he sailed. He took the small model to some firm in Boston, 
who bought it, as I remember, for fifty dollars. They had 
it cast in ‘Parian marble’ with a match-box at the back, 
and they must have made endless money out of it, though 
none of this ever came to the sculptor. 

_ His father writes to him about all kinds of things, quite 
frankly about money, but only in the most friendly way. 
There could not have been much money in the French 
household at that time, for Judge French had obligations 
in many directions. But then no one in Concord ever cared — 
much about money, or thought it good taste to talk about 
it, and Dan French, who seemed, with no great effort, al- 
ways to land in comfortable surroundings, gave it as little 
thought as did the rest. The few people in Concord who 
had much in the way of worldly goods adapted themselves 
to their less successful neighbors and would have thought 
it unwise to do anything simply for show. 

There is much in the letters, at this time, in regard to 
Blaine with whom Judge French seems to have always 
been in touch. ‘Blaine is a wag,’ he writes. ‘He has been 
off on a Presidential campaign, and some one suggested 
that it must have been rather a bore to be dragged around 


CONVENT AND CONCORD 63 


the country with the President and Cabinet. “Well,”’ said 
Blaine, “that reminds me of a man who was going to 
Chicago, about a hundred miles, and he bought a drove of 
hogs, drove them in, sold them, and only got as much as he 
had paid for them. Some one said to him, ‘It seems to me 
you must have had a pretty hard journey for your money.’ 
“Oh, no,’ drawled the farmer, ‘it might have been, but you 
see I had the society — of — the — hogs.’””’ 

This became in our family a by-word. There was always 
some story, some futile undertaking which would have 
been desolate enough, but for ‘the society of the hogs.’ 

And then Blaine’s defeat! He had, apparently, been sure 
of success, and from his popularity, his hopes, it would 
seem to have been justified, but it happened, in this case as 
it often does, that the big man, the prominent man, 
stepped aside for the dark horse. 

It must have been a terrible blow to him, and Judge 
French felt that it did much to undermine his health. Mrs. 
Blaine, as I remember her, was a handsome woman with 
white hair piled high, and would have given great dignity 
to the White House; while Miss Dodge, her cousin, would 
undoubtedly have gone down in history as the most bril- 
liant conversationalist of her time. 


Of course Judge French was always a farmer, in a way, 
and loved the farm. In fact, all the years of his sojourn in 
Washington, he ran it scientifically from a distance, and, 
what was more unusual, made it pay. He used to go home 
early and enjoy looking after things, and sometimes, in 
asparagus season — that and the milk were the two great 
products — when it had to be cut and hurried off in great 
quantities to Boston, it was impossible to get temporary 


6, MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


help and the whole family used to go into the barn and tie 
up the packages. This, I believe, my husband thought 
deadly uninteresting. But they all helped, and Miss Pres- 
ton, the pretty young Greek scholar, also, much to the 
amusement of Judge French, who liked to have her there, 
rather because she was pretty than because she was a 
scholar or of any real help. 

And always the humorous touches which he loved. ‘I 
played a cute little trick on the cows yesterday. They have 
a trying way of bolting through the rather handsome hedge 
down by the road, and at times tearing it badly, so I be- 
thought myself of something that would stop them. I 
stretched two wires well in among the leaves, just where 
they would catch them midway in their flight, and I lay 
awake at night laughing to myself, thinking of their sur- 
prise and disappointment the next time they wanted to 
take a little jaunt down the road.’ 

The constant references to Emerson make us feel very : 
near the great philosopher in his everyday life. “John 
Keyes says che has a fine photograph of Mr. Emerson 
and Edward and the new baby. You will surely want 
one.’ | 

‘Annie Keyes’s engagement has just been announced to — 
Edward’ — Edward Emerson, the son of Ralph Waldo 
Emerson — thus his sister writes to him. ‘And she has a 
diamond ring, a diamond set in black enamel. It was given 
to Mrs. Emerson by her husband when they were first 
married — not an engagement ring — and she says she has 
saved it all these years for Edward’s beloved.’ 


Also a very casual remark: ‘Our friend Morrill has been . 


appointed Secretary of the Treasury,’ of more consequence 
than it sounded to the writer or to the reader. 


CONVENT AND CONCORD . 65 


Then the time arrived when the young artist was to 
come home, and his father’s letters are full of advice to 
him, to travel about a little — which travels seemed to 
consist of a short tour of Europe — while he still had the 
time and money. ‘We have heard,’ he writes, ‘that you 
_will arrive on a Saturday, and we shall be there and look 
sharp after you, you may be sure.’ 

But in the interval, unexpected events had happened. 
As the father had written, Morrill had been appointed 
Secretary of the Treasury. I was in Washington at that 
time and remember what went on at the Washington end. 
Mr. Morrill, as soon as he was sworn into office, tele- 
graphed to Judge French asking him to come on and be 
Assistant Secretary. The latter said, afterwards, that the 
idea appealed to him from the first. He was a little tired of 
commuting to Boston and of the busy court life of his 
younger days, and the kind of legal work connected with 
the Government seemed to be just the kind of work he 
would like to do. At first thought, however, it also seemed 
quite impossible to give up his established law practice in 
Boston, and he wired Secretary Morrill to that effect. I 
remember, as a young girl, it quite appealed to me, Mr. 
Morrill’s telegram back, ‘I can take no refusal, I need you, 
and the country needs you’; and apparently the tempta- 
tion was too great for Judge French. His family and his 
friends evidently thought that it would be just the change 
of work that was suited to him, even if it only lasted a year 
or two. 

He came on almost immediately, and it-must have 
seemed strange, as I know it seemed very agreeable, to find 
himself, after years of farming in Concord and of busy law 
work in Boston, spending his days in that large room in the 


66 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Treasury Department looking out over the great flats with 
the Washington Monument in their midst, and the river 
beyond, with some one to wait upon him at every turn, and 
to revel in the kind of law which he loved. 

There he stayed ten years through various administra- 

tions, and recommended, as he writes in one of his letters, 
‘by four successive ex-Secretaries, Morrill, Sherman, Bout- 
well, and Windom, without the asking from me.’ 
_ He and Secretary Morrill were great friends, and some 
one in the household named two little kittens for them — 
Lot and Henry. They always went by their names, the 
first names of the two Secretaries, and there was a good 
deal of joking as to its indiscriminate application. This, 
Mary, the pretty Irish housemaid, thought disrespectful, 
and addressed them always as ‘Master Lot’ and ‘Master 
Henry,’ and when one of them died, Judge French sent the 
absent Secretary an official letter, upon official paper, an- 
nouncing the sad event. 


Finally, when the wandering son arrived — I have often 
heard him speak of it — when his ship arrived outside of 
Boston where they stopped for the mail, he and the other 
passengers were interested in the antics of a government 
boat with flags flying, which seemed to be waiting for them. 

An officer came aboard and asked for Mr. Daniel C. 
French. I think the struggling young artist must have 
thought he was going to be arrested, but the very dapper 
young officer assured him that his father had suddenly 
launched out into public life, and with a party of friends 
had come down in a government boat to welcome him. 


CHAPTER V 
STUDENT DAYS 


Wutte the father in Concord was looking after his boy’s 
interests at home, the son over in Florence, where his good 
luck seemed to pursue him, was trying not to have too good 
a time. | 

‘They all do everything they can to make me happy,’ he 
writes. ‘They not only treat me like one of the family, but 
they take me about to see everything and everybody — 
such interesting people!’ 

He lived in Preston Powers’s family, and within a few 
days of his arrival, he and Mrs. Powers, a young girl of 
twenty or twenty-one, went out in search of a room which 
would be suitable for a studio. They found one quite near 
the Porta Romana, outside which dwelt the numerous 
families of Powers, and Mr. Thomas Ball, at that time the 
most distinguished American sculptor as well as a man of a 
most wonderful personality. 

The patriarchal family of ‘Powers’ lived in half a dozen 
houses, a little nest of beautiful villas outside, as I have 
said, of the great Roman Gate. Here was Preston, who 
was making quite a success of portrait busts, and his wife; 
Longworth in another villa with his family; Ned; Mrs. Ib- 
botson, who had been the beautiful Luly Powers, married 
to an Englishman of wealth and settled in a magnificent 
marble house. And here was Mr. Ball’s large brown struc- 
ture, in the middle of Italian gardens, a coterie where con- 
gregated the literati, the musicians, the artists from Amer- 
ica and England, and from the neighboring Florence, de- 


68 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


lightful surroundings for a young man who had led such a 
quiet though interesting life, in a small town in America, 

For this room, his first studio, Mr. French paid six dol- 
lars a month, but, before he had worked there many days, 
he received a note from Mr. Ball asking him to come and 
work with him in the great studio which occupied a large 
part of the lower floor of his villa. Of this, he naturally 
writes home to his father with the greatest enthusiasm. 
To the youth just starting out in his artistic career, it 
seemed incredible that such good luck could have come to 
him. 

Judge French wrote to Mr. Ball in regard to this very 
practical honor which he had conferred upon his son, and 
received in return a letter full of such kindliness and 
humor, that it remains a treasured memory in our family: 


Hon. Henry F. French. 
My DEAR SIR: 

You would like to know why I have done this thing. I would 
ask you why the hearts and homes of the entire neighborhood 
were thrown open to your son before he had been here a week? 
Why do all the mothers (five at least), if he happens to be unwell, 
vie with each other in their endeavors to make him enjoy it? 
Why did I, when I went from curiosity, to see his “Minute Man,’ 
notwithstanding its surprising merit for a first work, find myself 
when I left the studio, thinking much more about the artist than 
the statue? And why did I go again and take my wife to see — 
the artist? . 

As far as I am concerned, I will tell you, I recognized in his 
simple, ingenuous, artist nature, something more than talent; 
something indispensable to a true artist. And when he came 
here and took a studio not far from me, but'too far for me to see 
him as often as was good for him, I thought how, twenty years 
ago, I came here to make my first struggle, and how welcome 


was the face of dear old Powers whenever it brightened my door. _ 


And then — well, to come to the selfish Pes of it, I thought how 
nice it would be, when I was up to my elbows in clay, on a ladder 


DAN FRENCH WITH THOMAS BALL AND HIS FAMILY/’IN FLORENCE 


9 


STUDENT DAYS 69 


15 feet in the air, to have someone that I could call upon to re- 
ceive my visitors; and I decided at once to give him a corner in 
my studio and invited him forthwith. I find it works well, with 
perhaps a few objections, for instance: when I hear fresh youth- 
ful female voices in the next room, I descend from my elevation, 
wash my hands and am ready to receive them when they get 
around to where I am. But I am oftentimes sadly disgusted at 
the indifference shown by a bevy of pretty girls to the head of the 
establishment, when that son of yours is beaming round on the 
other side of them. 

I say nothing, but go quietly up my ladder again to work, 
leaving him to his fate. However, as there is said to be safety in 
numbers, you need have no fears for him, as ¢hat class of my vis- 
itors has increased wonderfully since he has been with me. And 
if he does not try my patience /vo severely in the above manner, 
he can stay as long as he pleases. As to the place where he sleeps 
and takes his meals; if you could see the devotion of that little 
Mrs. Preston Powers — well, you would like to be in his place if 
you were away from home. As that is about all I know about the 
case, I suppose I may sit down. 

Believe me, my dear sir, it will always give me pleasure to do 
anything in my power to advance the professional interests of 
your son. 

Very truly yours 
Tuomas BALL 


When I began to look over the letters of the family, I 
asked my husband for his diary, some of which had been 
kept in Florence, some in Concord, which I had seen only 
years before, and only in glimpses. Two or three times 
later I asked for it, and one day he brought me a few pages 
covered with extracts. 

‘Here is the best part of the diary,’ he said. 

‘Where is the whole of it?’ I asked, somewhat agitated. 

‘I tore that up,’ he admitted, and to my astonished in- 
quiries, his answer was, ‘ Well, as I looked it over, I decided 
that my mind was quite made up, that I didn’t want any 


70 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


one to read it, and the best thing to do was to dispose of it 
while there was no room for discussion.’ 

Some one who was present remarked, ‘It must have been 
lurid, if you were afraid to have any one see it.’ | 

‘On the contrary,’ said Mr. French, ‘It was just the 
opposite of lurid. It was so exceedingly innocent that I 
made up my mind it should never see the light.’ 

And so that was the end of his diary. But the letters, I 
think, even though youthful and possibly innocent, are 
more or less interesting as showing the life of an American 
youth in the artistic surroundings of the Florence of 1875. 

The evening of his arrival, Preston Powers met him at 
the station and drove him across the city, and out through 
the Porta Romana to their little American colony where he 
was to live. He was frankly disappointed with the beauti- 
ful city of Florence about which he had heard so much. 
He had doubtless expected it to look like Paris, and in- 
stead, at that time, he saw dirty streets, few lights, and 
circuitous turns, in some cases, narrow, winding slums. 
As they passed by a great building which, in a better light, 
he would have recognized as the Baptistry, his friend 
pointed backward over his shoulder, ‘Ghiberti Gates,’ he 
remarked nonchalantly. It seemed almost like a sacrilege 
to the young artist who had come across the ocean to see 
them. Later he writes: 


FLORENCE, November 28, A a 

Mr. Dyer and I called this morning at the Baptistry where 
the bronze doors are, to see the children baptized. The poor lit- 
tle wretches are brought there when they are only a few hours 
old, and greased, and salted, and sprinkled, and mopped, until 
they do not know what to make of this world they have come 
into. There were two miserable little red things there this Morn- 
ing ‘getting religion.’ 


STUDENT DAYS 71 


‘The son writes about his first glimpse of cosmopolitan 
society there in Florence, about his first palace, with its 
marble stairway, and flunkies and tapestries, not much 
like the Town Hall in Concord, and the flunkies not much 
like Patrick, who did the chores, and was his friend — and 
very likely the friend of Emerson as well; his first ball, also 
in a palace, where he danced opposite some beautiful 
princess, the daughter-in-law of the king, who wore a red 
gown and quite bewitched him, though they could not con- 
verse, she speaking only Italian and French, and he only 
his native English. But he had a fine time watching her, 
and wrote to his father, ‘Sometime in the future when IT 
make my ideal “ Venus,” it will be very much more beauti- 
ful for having studied for so long those sloping shoulders 
opposite me.’ 

Here and there he jotted down a few comments about 
art, but I am quite sure that he would tear up the whole 
manuscript if he ever came across these immature criti- 
cisms in print. bie 

He is thrilled by his romantic surroundings, both artistic 
and luxurious: Mrs, Ibbotson’s white marble palace, the 
most beautiful house he had ever seen; of the Christmas 
dinner, probably there — ‘four turkeys, six ducks, ten 
chickens, really a great hospitality.’ 

Later on he must have, as he threatened to do, shut 
down on society, for he claims that he stayed at home often 
in the evening, while the rest of the family were out every 
night, and that his sole diversions were walks with Miss 
Lizzie Ball and Miss Nellie Powers to the most ‘interesting 
places, of which the neighborhood was full. He writes of 
the great avenue upon which some of their houses backed, 
a romantic spot, more than a mile long, an old palace at the 


72 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


top, the Roman Gate at the foot, and flanked with huge 
cypresses, said to have been planted by the Medici, and 
called ‘the Poggio Imperiale.’ 

‘Mr. Ball’s house,’ he writes, ‘is handsome and tasteful, 
though we should freeze in such a house at home. The 
rooms are large and high — and occasionally a few flakes of 
snow! In fact Florence is about the coldest place I have 
ever experienced, excepting always Grandma’s best bed- 
room in Chester.’ 

His friends felt that he worked too hard, that he did. not 
go out enough; but again he writes to his father, ‘I am — 
going to shut down on society, except among these Ameri- 
can families—my blood relations, so to speak; the Balls, the 
Powerses, the Ibbetsons,’ and I suspect, though he does 
not mention it, the household of any unusually beautiful 
woman. 

Apparently, however, before he put his plans into effect, 
he had quite a fling. He taught every one how to dance the 
‘Boston’; he had left it all the rage at home, and found it 
all the rage in Florence, except that they, none of them, 
knew how to dance it. ‘I am teaching them all,’ he writes, 
‘débutantes, countesses. Everybody crazy about se but 
no one seems to know exactly how it goes.’ 

He also went to the Borghese Ball, at that time the 
great event of the Florentine season — ‘danced until three 
o’clock, came home ready to sleep for a week.’ There 
he saw the Contessa Mirafiore, the famous and beautiful 
mistress of Victor Emmanuel — also different from Con- 
cord life. ‘Such rooms and such a lot of them. Such — 
tries — oh, come, now, I want a palace}’ if 

Within the next year or two, he went off on various 
trips, with either the Powerses or the Balls, and writes 


SGNUAHO S,TAVHdVA SV SYAMOd GAN AGNV HONAUA NVA 


4 


STUDENT DAYS 73 


home from Naples, from Venice, from the Dolomites, al- 
ways having a good time, always enjoying himself. 

He and some of his friends drove out from Rome to 
Garibaldi’s place in the country, thinking that that parti- 
cular day was a day of féte. This they found to be a mis- 
take, but, upon interceding with the servant, and explain- 
ing that they had come from America, the latter relented, 
went back into the house, and in a few moments returned 
with the news that the Signor would see the Americani. 
They found the old hero seated at a table, elderly, and, at 
the time, far from well. He wore a white flannel shirt and a 
skull cap, and his hair was grey, but the thing that they 
remembered especially about him was the lovely pink-and- 
white of his complexion. 

He was greatly taken with Miss Hattie Hurd, General 
Benjamin Butler’s niece, who was with them, an exquisitely 
pretty young girl, and addressed most of his conversation 
to her, reciting Italian poems to show her the beauty of 
the Italian tongue. This, in spite of the fact that he spoke 
English perfectly, having lived in America for many years. 
His enunciation, Mr. French said, was very beautiful. 

Curious incidents and humorous touches he writes to his 
family from Florence. ‘Weather — amphibious. Always 
too hot or too cold, or something.’ 

He went to the Carnival and to various fétes, and upon’ 
one occasion was disgusted with the American who made 
himself conspicuous by driving ten horses to his trap. 
During the Carnival he drove fourteen, all white, twisting 
and winding through the circuitous streets of Florence to 
the annoyance of every one else. The man was named 
Gray, the horses small and placid, and people spoke of 
them contemptuously as ‘Gray and his sheep.’ 


74 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


_ At one time his friends Porter and Munzig turned up in 
Florence, naturally to his great delight. Porter he took 
out to visit his friends in their little colony, and later they 
went about together sight-seeing for days at a time. I like 
to think of these two friends and fellow artists away from 
home, prowling about the winding streets, discovering un- 
expected bits of artistic lore, and having a good time sea 
boys together. 

Always he wrote with the greatest admiration of his 
friend and master, Mr. Thomas Ball, and of the beautiful 
music, a constant quantity in their home life. One reason, 
perhaps, for so much music was the fact that Mr. Ball in 
his early days, before he was a sculptor, was a singer of 
note. He had sung the réle of ‘Elijah’ in the oratorio of 
that name, and he used to say that he was prouder of that 
achievement than of his ‘Washington statue’ on the Bos- 
ton Common. Young French loved the musical atmosphere — 
of which there had been too little in Concord. They all 
played and sang — Mr. and Mrs. Ball, and Miss Ball, to- 
gether. 

Like young people everywhere, they had their pictures 
taken. The picture of Dan French and Ned Powers as 
Raphael’s cherubs is amusing enough to reproduce here. 

One night Mr. Ball had a very curious dream about his 
statue ‘Eve Just Created.’ He said that he thought he 
went into the studio in the morning and found that the 
figure, which he had left the night before on the turn- 
table, had disappeared, leaving only the clay plinth behind 
her. It struck him as rather queer, but he concluded to 
look her up, and finally discovered a knee protruding from 
a closet, the door of which was nearly closed. 

On trying to open the door, he perceived that she was 


STUDENT DAYS. os 


holding it and to such good purpose that the clay knee was 
crushed by its closing. Upon seeing this, he called to her, 
“Why, Eve, why don’t you open that door? Don’t you see 
that you are crushing your knee?’ Finally, by verbal and 
physical persuasion, he got the door open, and there was 
his beautiful statue crouched down in the corner of the 
closet still trying to hide, with her clay knees cracked open 
as they would be, naturally, if bent double. 

Mr. Ball’s anxiety at this was great, and he addressed 
her, ‘Why don’t you get up? Don’t you see you are spoil- 
ing yourself? What did you come in here for, anyway?’ 

To which Eve modestly replied, ‘Why, you didn’t give 
me any clothes, and I was ashamed, and came in here to 
hide.’ 

‘Well,’ said Mr. Ball, ‘all I have to say is that you are © 
not the ‘“‘Eve Just Created” I made you for, or you 
wouldn’t know you were naked!’ And there the dream 
ended. 

Dan French writes more or less about his work, about 
the ‘Minute Man’ which he calls the ‘ Colonial,’ and which 
his father was having unveiled for him in this country. 
This reminds me of a funny little incident a great many 
years later, when some photographs of his works were 
published in a French magazine. They were sent over 
labelled as they were always labelled in America — the 
‘Minute Man’; the ‘Milmore Memorial’; or the ‘Angel of 
Death’; ‘Memories’; etc. When the magazine reached us, 
the statues were all labelled entirely correctly save the first; 
which was labelled ‘Le Petit Homme.’ | 

He felt somewhat anxious, of course, as to being away 
upon such a momentous occasion, the unveiling of his first 
statue. When it was given to him, he had written, ‘It 


76 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


makes me somewhat nervous.’ He was only twenty-two at 
the time. 

He asks his brother Will to send him a photograph of 
himself as the girls, Mrs. Powers and Miss Ball, were crazy — 
to see what he looked like, and this the brother does, “upon 
condition,’ he writes, ‘that you explain to them that my 
pictures are more better-looking than I am than your 
pictures are better-looking than you are.’ 

In the same letter, I think, his brother tells how he had 
taken Miss Preston to the unveiling. They went down 
across the meadow and found the boat half full of ice and 
water. The former they broke, bailed out the water, and 
climbed. in, ‘with no damage,’ he writes, ‘to anybody, 
though some discomfort.’ 

They reached the battle-ground and had a fine view of 
it from the river, with Emerson and Curtis and Blaine 
leading the procession, and perhaps catching pneumonia, 
though none of them seemed to die in consequence of it. 
Miss Preston’s skirts where she had sat in the boat were 
frozen stiff about her ankles, and they later went over to 
the Keyeses’ to thaw out and have a warm drink. 

The two brothers seemed to have been greatly agitated 
about the pedestal. “They all want a different kind,’ the 
brother in Concord writes, “some a round one, some a 
boulder. Nobody seems to know much about the subject.’ 
And the brother in Florence writes back, ‘If they have any- 
thing like the plans they have sent me, it will be a terror.’ 

So brother Will apparently took the pedestal in hand. “I 
went down,’ he writes, ‘the night before, to see Mr. Emer- 
son, and talked to him like a Dutch uncle’; though why it 
was necessary to talk to Mr. Emerson like a Dutch uncle, I 


do not know, for he had been from the first a good friendof _ 


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STUDENT DAYS 7 


the sculptor and was always the most reasonable of men. 
Perhaps it was an explanation, half humorous, half apolo- 
getic, of having addressed the great philosopher with a 
frankness which had seemed, under the circumstances, 
necessary. 

‘And yesterday,’ he writes, ‘the great Mr. Cabot, in the 
réle of architect, came out from Boston, and with Mr. 
Emerson, the great philosopher, we drove out to the spot 
and made a study of it. The thermometer was about zero, 
and a fine breeze blowing. We stood Mr. Cole on the 
pedestal with a pole for a gun and, as you will see by the 
enclosed, held a kind of dress rehearsal; Mr. Cole as the 
embattled farmer, I keeping watch close by in the back- 
ground, the philosopher and the architect in deep medita- 
tion, and the Emerson horse, which Edward claims is 
peaceful enough when he goes, but fiery when he stands 
still, waiting at one side with a sleigh. 

‘I think,’ he writes, ‘that the pedestal and the six-foot 
man will be about right.’ 

February 28, 1875.... You speak of the temptation it must 
be for a sculptor to stay in Florence. I admit that there is more 
to be seen in the way of art here, and that the marble work is 
better and more easily executed than at home, but I have seen 
enough to convince me that these by no means make up for the 
loss that one must experience in being away from his native 
land. . . . It is to me pitiable to see the regard and affection which 
these Americans over here have for a country which they call 
home, but in which they could never be happy after being 
brought up in this easy-going Italian city. Don’t fear my ever 
wishing to make Florence my permanent residence. Mrs. Ball 
gets quite out of patience with my obstinacy in declaring my in- 
tention of sculping in Boston. 

Although upon his arrival in America, his father met him 
down the bay in Boston, they did not go to Washington 


78 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


immediately. They went up to Concord together to stay 
for a few weeks, and the young artist, who had been away 
from his beloved town for two years, must have been eager 
to see his old friends and old associations. On the day after 
his arrival, they gave a party for him — that is, Mrs. Joe 
Keyes gave the party, in her house just across the lane 
from the Old Manse. I don’t know what they had to eat; 
it was before the days of afternoon teas — everything was 
called a party — but the young people all came, and many 
of the older ones; and after they had welcomed him, and 
fed him, and made a fuss over him, they all formed in a line 
and escorted him down the lane and across the ‘rude 
bridge’ and showed him the ‘Minute Man,’ which, of 
course, he had never seen in bronze. A fine home-coming, 
this, to a young sculptor! | 


CHAPTER VI 
CONCORD IN 1878 


In the summer of 1878, I went to Concord with my cousin 
Dan. Though we were not married till many years later, 
we always spoke of this trip upon the Fall River boat as 
our first wedding journey. I rather wonder that my con- 
ventional family let me go in so bohemian a manner, for 
that time, but I was just that minute out of the convent 
where for many years I had led a secluded life — short 
dresses and long hair — alas! no longer an implication of 
youth — and I suppose they still looked upon me as a 
little girl. 

I was always thankful that I went at that period before 
the Old Concord had changed beyond recognition; while 
Mr. Emerson was still alive; while Mr. Alcott conversed, 
and Miss Louisa wrote; while Hawthorne was still a ro- 
mantic memory; and Thoreau a burning subject of dis- 
cussion among the practical people of the countryside. 

The street called the ‘Mill Dam’ spread out into the 
oblong square, where, at one end, stood the old Wright 
Tavern, the Colonial Inn at the other, where once lived 
Thoreau’s family. In those days, across the way, was the 
great shabby Middlesex Hotel, the only thing about which 
I can remember is that papers were found in the cellar to 
the effect that so many hogshead of rum —a hideous 
number — were imbibed in its prosperous days in the 
course of a week. 
[like to close my eyes and see it laid out before me as if 


86 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


it were a picture. The rather busy, rather shabby, business 
block with the green and the trees of the square beyond; 
the slim, black figure of Mr. Emerson; Mr. Alcott, patriar- 
chal, and white of hair; Miss Louisa, driving about in her 
wicker pony carriage with its white horse; and Miss Ellen 
Emerson, riding sideways with billowing skirts upon her 
donkey; Thoreau and Hawthorne in the misty back- 
ground. 

Of course I never did see any such picture, but it might 
so easily have been there, for they were all familiar figures 
in the life of the town, and you knew they were always just 
around the corner, coming into view. ; 

The one of them whom I remember best was Mr, Emer- 
son, and the thing that pleased and rather surprised me 
was to see his slender figure, slightly stooping, a shawl 
about his shoulders, standing patiently in line with the 
rest at the post-office wicket — or, to quote my husband’s 
words: ‘the tall figure walking the village street, enveloped 
in a long black cloak or shawl, and looking as I imagine 
Dante must have looked as he walked the streets of Flor- 
ence.’ 

And the donkey! Miss Ellen had brought him back from 
Fayal. He was good-sized, of a nondescript grey, with a 
real donkey jog as he ambled down the street. Miss Ellen 
always did the natural thing. She was an exquisite person — 
who lived in a world of her own, and it never occurred to — 
her that, before the days of automobiles, she shouldn't 
amble about Concord as she had ambled about the Azores, 
on a patient, quiet donkey who would wait outside, wag- 
ging his ears, without the care or attention demanded by a 
horse. She was a wonderful if somewhat incongruous 
figure, Miss Ellen, full skirts of thin summer stuff billowing 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
Statue in the Concord Public Library 


CONCORD IN 1878 81 


out and enveloping one side of the little beast, her spiritual 
face, with its smooth hair, slightly uplifted, her thin, deli- 
cate hands holding the reins and, as is always necessary 
with donkeys, trying to shove him along. 

But Miss Ellen and the donkey were both of them mis- 
taken in thinking that Concord in the least resembled the 
Azores. The boys teased him, the dogs barked at him, the 
horses ran away at sight of him, Miss Ellen, more or less, 
tumbled off, and the poor little beast, who had expected to 
settle down to a life of transcendental ease and luxury, was 
relegated to the back of the house, to drawing wood and 
doing ignominious chores about the place. But perhaps a 
donkey, being a donkey, wouldn’t mind! 

And the philosophers! The day of my arrival I remem- 
ber seeing queer-looking people upon the street, what in 
those days we spoke of as ‘long-haired men and short- 
haired women,’ though the term would have at present but 
slight application. 

“Who is that?’ I would ask in reference to some woman 
in clothes which to my eyes, fresh from Washington, were 
at least odd. | 

“Oh, that’s a philosopher,’ some one would tell me. | 

It was the season of the Summer School of Philosophy, 
and the philosophers were like flies, many of them be- 
draggled-looking, and we young people naturally did a 
good deal of laughing; but, on the other hand, many of 
them were the most interesting and brilliant people of the 
time. 

It all depends — upon which you care for most. I, per- 
sonally, have always had a great leaning towards pretty 
clothes and the amenities of life. Still, if people haven’t 
time or inclination to keep their minds upon such things, 


82 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


and if their minds do stay upon the great things of life, . 
that makes up for most everything. : 
For instance, my cousin Mrs. Hudson tells a story about 
going to Boston with one of the Concord intellectuals, who, 
by the way, was a most lovable person, and most brilliant. 
My cousin said she was absorbingly interesting all the way 
down in the train, and later, at the Museum, where they 
went to see the Sargent pictures. This woman knew more 
about Sargent, and more about pictures generally, than 
almost anybody, and my cousin drank it in. On the way 
home, they discovered that Miss K , who was dressed in 
quiet, rather easy-going black, had her skirt on wrong side 
out! They were both so interested in art and were having 
such a beautiful time that I wonder they discovered it at 
all; and really what difference did it make? My cousin said 
she would have been willing to wear all her clothes wrong 
side out if she could have known as much about Sargent 
and could have given as great a thrill to others as she her- — 
self had felt that day. CRS 
_ There has already been so much written about Concord 
and the School of Philosophy that it seems superfluous to 
try to add to it. And yet the personal equation is such a 
variable commodity that many of these little incidents 
which happened to me never happened, I am quite sure, to 
any one else, and were all so irrevocably bound up with my 
husband’s early life in Concord that they may seem worth 
while. To have /ived them through all his impressionable 
years, to have basked in the friendship and the smile of 
Emerson, to have known him as a neighbor, was the great- 
est of all privileges that could come to a young worker in 
art. For no one ever laughed at Mr. Emerson. There was 
never anything but reverence for the great philosopher, the _ 


CONCORD IN 1878 $3 


great neighbor, the great friend, though there may have 
been some aloofness from the poet, the thinker of great 
thoughts. 

I went to one of the conversations held at the Emerson 
house, and the chief thing which I remember was the slim 
figure of Mr. Emerson presiding. He sat, as those who at- 
tended these evenings will recall, in front of the fireplace 
between the two doors leading into his study, the rest of us 
more or less in rows facing him. It was one of those later 
years of his life and people said he was failing; he turned to 
his son Edward, who was near him, now and then, slightly 
troubled for an escaping word. I was a young girl at the 
time and of not too serious a turn of mind, but I have 
carried with me through life that picture of the great man 
sitting there before us and the benediction of his beautiful 
smile. Ne 

Mr. William French, in telling of a meeting which he at- 
tended and which he himself greatly enjoyed, said that his 
brother Dan admitted that he heard very little of the 
philosophy; that he and another youth stood upon the 
back porch, intending to listen through the windows, but 
the listening was impossible owing to the noise and con- 
fusion in the near-by kitchen; that the servants were in a 
great state of mind because the wash-benches had been 
carried into the drawing-room for the philosophers to sit 
upon, and that it was impossible to prepare things for the 
next morning’s work, which was Monday morning and 
wash-day! 

_ And years afterward an author tells of going, as a strug- 
gling student, to see Emerson to ask of him the honor of 
his written name. Emerson, of course, gave it to him, 
talked to him pleasantly, and then in his gentle, high-bred 


84 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


manner, as if he were asking a favor said, ‘And I should 
like to have you write in my autograph album,’ which the 
young and struggling author, long years afterward, re- 
membered and treasured, and loved to tell. | 

Of course the tales about the School of Philosophy were 
true enough. Somebody did talk about the ‘itness of the 
it,’ and the ‘whatness of the there,’ and Professor Harris, 
upon one occasion did say, ‘The soul thinks itself, and the 
soul thinks it’s not self,’ but those were only extreme ex- 
pressions of a uniform seeking for the good and the true, a 
galaxy of fine names, beginning with Emerson, Alcott, 
Curtis, Channing, Miss Elizabeth Peabody. 

Alcott was a dreamer, of course, but if one can be a real 
_ dreamer of real dreams, is not that the greatest of all? To 
the young, man is good or bad, but, as we go on in life, we 
come to feel that our minds and characters are made up in 
stripes. There is the wide stripe of wisdom, and the deep 
stripe of integrity, and the elusive stripe of poetic vision. 
And on either side of them, and between them, are other 
stripes of common-sense, of honesty, of practical affairs, so 
faint and imperfect as to be almost blanks. Barely a person 
has them all, and a man dreams according to his inherited 
stripes. The dreams of one are just queer, while the 
dreams of another are worth while. But if a man has any 
vision with the stars and brings down to earth and leaves 
there some glint of their elemental truth, then the world is 
better because he has lived and dreamed. 

Alcott, I believe, from what I have gathered from his 
friends and family, was one of these. His ideas of educa- 
tion, to the practical application of which he was unequal, 
were far ahead of his time. His family adored him, and, 
though he tried them sometimes to the point of starvation, 


CONCORD IN 1878 8. 


he was always an inspiration to them. Miss Louisa’s de- 
finition of genius was that it was like an escaping balloon 
which all the rest of the family were hanging on to and try- 
ing to bring back to earth. 


‘Mr. Alcott, when he was sitting for his bust, told Mr. 
French the following story: 

‘One morning when I was at home teaching my children, 
Samuel Staples, who was the town constable, and almost a 
nextdoor neighbor, came to my house and told me that he 
would have to take me to jail for not paying my taxes — I 
was not willing to support a government that protected 
slavery. ‘Very well, Samuel,” said I, “if you will wait 
a moment until Mrs. Alcott can put some food in a basket” 
— the prison fare was too rich for me, being a vegetarian 
— “T will go with you.” 

‘So presently Mrs. Alcott brought me a basket and 
Staples and I walked slowly down to the jail. Arrived 
there, the matron said she was sorry that Mr. Alcott’s cell 
was not made up yet. 

“Well,” I said, ‘Samuel, I will go back and resume 
teaching my children, and when you want me, you can 
come for me.” 

‘So I went back to the house, and presently Samuel 
came, but he said that Squire Hoar had paid my taxes so 
he could not take me to jail. 

‘I told him that I did not know what right Squire Hoar 
had to pay my taxes!’ 


We must always remember that these people were 
bright, and very human, not always highbrow, but spark- 
ling in conversation. Everybody in Concord seemed to be, 


86 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE — 


in one way or another, intelligent, owing, I suppose to the 
constant coming together of so many brilliant minds. In 
fact, some one said—TI believe that it was Secretary 
Boutwell — upon being asked if there was any business in 
the town, ‘Oh, no, Concord is a place where the inhabit- 
ants support themselves by writing for the “Atlantic 
Monthly.”’ 

I remember how they gathered at the Bartlett house on 
a Sunday evening, played games and told stories and 
talked, the kind of talk that used to be called ‘conversa- 
tion.” Both George Bartlett and Ripley, his brother, were 
wits. I cannot remember what any one said, but I do re- 
member that I laughed until I was tired. Sometimes there 
were glimpses of gossip and mimicry. Miss Martha spoke 
of them as ‘Sunday night reviles.’ 

And the games — of course in those days young people 
played games much more than they do now — but the 
games of wit and intellect were brought to perfection in 
Concord at that time — at least, so they seemed to me, be- 
ing utterly devoid of any such facility. There was ‘capping 
poetry,’ and a wonderful game of being asked why a person 
who sat near you was like an object, usually a wild animal, 
an elephant, or more often an object in the room. I remem- 
ber one answer which greatly pleased us. A very hand- 
some man, a successful banker in Boston, Albert B——, 
happened to be present, and the question was: 

“Why is Albert [the handsome young banker] like that 
fern?’ pointing to a large and showy fern in a bay win- 
dow. 

With scarcely a hesitation, the answer came: “Because 
he has been transplanted from the bank where he — 
to the parlor which he adorns.’ | 


CONCORD IN 1878 84 


_ This was from my young aunt from Washington, who 
was quite equal to any of them with her wit. 


‘ Concord was certainly in those days, before motors had 
opened it up to the world, a beautiful village. Wedded as 
I am to my Berkshire Hills, this low-lying town, with its 
sloping fields and winding river, still seems full of peace 
and loveliness. Back of the houses upon Main Street were 
lawns and gardens, down to the very edge of the stream, 
and when we wanted to go anywhere, we took a boat and 
paddled along from one house to another. 

Up at the end of the street, as we drifted under the 
bridge, there was the gable of Frank Sanborn’s house, 
with its strange letters worked into the bricks which a 
foreigner might have thought some Eastern charm, but 
which we of New England origin knew to be ‘Ariana,’ the 
name of the wife of his early days. 

- It was a quaint old town, nestling there among its big 
trees, surrounded by meadows, with two sides to the river, 
and its old white houses, not many of them pretentious, 
but with good architecture and good furniture and tradi- 
tions, and above all, with fine people — as my brother-in- 
law, Mr. William French, expressed it, a place where you 
felt that the people themselves were finer than the clothes 
they wore and the houses they lived in. 

To be sure, those first years of my life in Concord were 
in no way oppressed by exalted thought, or at least by 
their expression. It seemed to be largely made up of the- 
atricals, picnics, and shows. My cousin Dan and the two 
Bartletts, Ripley and George, were famous for the variety 
of shows in which they excelled, both indoors and outdoors. 
In fact, Mr. George Bartlett afterward made this a profes- 


88 | MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


sion and travelled about the country, giving tableaux, 
charades, etc., for the society people in big cities, among 
whom he was in great demand. 

I remember one beautiful procession of illuminated boats 
upon the river, among others a Venetian barge. Our boat, 
in which my cousin rowed, was ‘Youth on the Prow, and 
Pleasure at the Helm’; young Stedman Buttrick launching 
himself forward like a youthful figurehead, and I, as Pleas- 
ure at the helm, surrounded with great luxury, as well as 
incredible heat from the lanterns and innumerable mos- 
quitoes. 

At a Christmas celebration, though I was not present, 
and only remember it by hearsay, they had arranged two 
hemlock trees, trimmed so as to stand together as one. At 
a signal the two trees swung apart at the top, and in the 
open space was suspended a shallow basket with the Christ 
Child, curled up quite free of clothes, and a halo about his 
head. At the rehearsal the little cherub who was to take 
the leading part stood waiting, pink and white and naked, 
to be helped into his perch. He watched eagerly the great — 
trees swing away from each other, and, as the Christmas 
song burst forth, ‘I Know That My Redeemer Liveth,’ he 
straightened up, glanced about at his friends, showed his 
white baby teeth and smiled; ‘That’s me,’ he cried, puffing 
out his little pink chest. 

The picnics were a continuous performance. Groups of 
boats were always going up the river or down the river, up 
the North Branch or up to the Sudbury Meadows, for 
luncheon or supper, and often to Egg Rock — a point of 
rocky land jutting out into the dividing stream; and my — 
chief memory of Egg Rock is an unsuspecting young man 
from Boston, good-looking, conventional, a great catch, I 


CONCORD IN 1878 89 


believe, at that particular time, trying to eat a three- 
cornered piece of Boston cream pie, with the cream filling 
running down his neck and disappearing into the sleeves of 
his immaculate coat, and trying to look as if he enjoyed 
himself. 

It was certainly a spot of peace and plenty, no rich and 
no poor. My sister-in-law, Mrs. Bartlett, wrote, ‘I am 
glad to live in a place like this where there is no poverty.’ 
It was a real democracy — from the inside — as only a 
true democracy can be. Everything was settled at town 
meeting, where everybody went and everybody was in- 
terested. The few people who had money would have 
scorned to make any show; very few people had two serv- 
ants, some of the most cultivated, none. The young peo- 
ple, as I remember them, were indefatigable dancers, but 
they simply went to each other’s houses and danced, and 
served, perhaps, cider and apples and doughnuts, some- 
times, when the invitations were slightly more formal, ice 
cream. There was little service, and it would have been 
ostentatious to try to serve a supper where there was no 
one to cook it but the hostess, and those who could easily 
have afforded it would have thought it extreme to set a 
standard which their friends could not live up to, | 

There was little talk about their ideas; it was simply 
part of their way of thinking and living. And yet, socially 
prominent people came there constantly from the cities, 
and from abroad. I remember two English beauties who 
had had brilliant London seasons, who had the time of their 
lives in Concord, going to dance and supper at the Wayside 
Inn, to play games at the Bartletts’, or to meet some dis- 
tinguished person at the puritanically simple and puritan- 
ically beautiful Emerson home. The Evarts girls were 


g0 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR'’S WIFE 


there from Washington — their father, William M. 
Evarts, was at that time Secretary of State, and one of 
our country’s great men — whom I had looked up to as 
the socially exalted, and how simply and naturally they 
loved the Concord life! 

There was one story of the social democracy in Concord 
which I always remembered. Miss Alicia Keyes came to 
visit me. I had known her always in Concord, but this 
was the first time she had come to my house in New York. 
She was very handsome, with features of the clean-cut, 
Boston type, but not stylish, and sublimely unconscious of 
clothes. I had seen her at parties for years, in the simplest 
and most unnoticeable of evening gowns, though I knew 
she went often to visit among her ‘swell’ friends in New- 
port and Boston. | 

I gave a dinner for her, and, without thinking in the 
least about her clothes, I invited people whom I thought — 
she would care to see and who would be interested in her 
brilliant mind. When she came downstairs that evening, 
before the other guests had arrived, and appeared in the 
doorway, I literally gasped for breath. Hier soft hair was 
naturally ondulé, before the days when we could buy a 
wave for a dollar and a half; she was dressed in a beautiful 
robin’s-egg blue silk gown of a most distinguished cut, with 
handsome lace about her shoulders and sleeves, and a rare 
old jewel to hold it in place. ~ 

‘Why, Alicia,’ I said, ‘where did you get the gown?” 

She thought for a moment, moved about slightly so that 
I could see the train. ‘Why, I got it in Paris a year ago. © 
You see when I go out among my grand friends, I don’t 
want to disgrace them. I wore it once in Boston at the 
B——’s, and once at Newport last summer.’ 


CONCORD IN 1878 gI 


‘But I never saw it!’ I cried. ‘You never wear it in Con- 
cord.’ 

She stood still for a moment and watched me. ‘Oh, no,’ 
she said, ‘I never wear it in Concord. You see there aren’t 
more than a half-dozen people in Concord who could afford 
such a gown and they wouldn’t — we wouldn’t — wear a 
dress like this — there — it wouldn’t do, you know.’ 

And I thought of the little black-and-white check gown, 
piped with red and half open at the neck, in which I had 
seen her at the Concord festivities, and it seemed to me that 
that was a democracy of which I had so far never dreamed. 

Of course there were always wits in Concord during 
those first years which I spent there. George Bartlett and 
Robertson James were the two that stood forth. It was 
said that upon one occasion George Bartlett offered to 
help a young woman over a fence or a wall — I have for- 
gotten which. 

‘Oh, no,’ she said, balancing herself. ‘I am quite able to 
support myself.’ 

He stood back, clasped his hands and gazed at her 
ecstatically. 

‘Oh, madam,’ he said, ‘you are just the woman I have 
been looking for all my life!’ 

Robertson James was the third of the three famous 
James brothers — Henry, and Professor William James of 
Harvard — and, in conversation, certainly the wit of the 
family. He had a way of strolling into the studio while my 
cousin was at work, making comments on everybody in 
town, his host and myself included — comments so deli- 
cious and keen, and with such a twinkle of his eye and a 
drawing-down of the corners of his mouth, that no one 
could ever take offence, no matter how personal they were. 


92 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


They were usually apropos of some particular person or 
occasion, and I have forgotten them with one brilliant ex- 
ception. He and George Bartlett were rather given to 
showing their wit at each other’s expense. George had no 
love of good clothes and also, being terribly near-sighted, 
had a way of shuffling along quite oblivious of passing 
glances. 

, On this particular morning he and Miss Margaret Put- 
nam had started off upon an early expedition upon the 
river to see the sunrise. The girls all liked to go about with 
Mr. Bartlett, although he was old enough to be their fa- 
ther, because he was entertaining and such a lover of all 
that was beautiful. 

Miss Putnam was very young, a Boston girl, very blonde 
and very dainty, and they did have something of the air of 
beauty and the beast in the early morning light. Suddenly 
they met Mr. James, a man of fifty, well-dressed and easy 
of manner. As they passed, the ill-matched couple paused 
for a casual greeting. 

' ‘Good-morning, Mr. James,’ said Miss Putnam, with a 
sideways glance from under her coquettish hat. ‘You see 
I am the early bird!’ 

Mr. James from his superior height glanced swiftly 
across the girlish figure to the slouching middle-aged man 
—the reddish beard, the vague near-sighted eyes, the 
gaping pockets of the careless coat. His eyes twinkled, his 
mouth twitched. 

“And, faith,’ he said, ‘you’ve got him!’ as gravely as he 


_ could, and passed on down the street. 


Of course Judge Hoar was famous for his wit — the wit 
of a most sarcastic and brilliant mind — but most of his 
sayings have been quoted and printed. There was always a 


CONCORD IN 1878 93 


rivalry between Concord and Lexington as to who fought 
the great fight. And once, when the Lexington people sent 
out an invitation, there was a mistake in the wording — a 
word wrongly used—and Judge Hoar remarked that 
‘that was the first evidence that he had ever had that the 
Lexingtonians murdered the King’s English.’ 

Judge Hoar also said about Wendell Phillips’s funeral — 
he and Phillips had never liked each other — ‘that he 
couldn’t go, but he approved.’ 

We always called the Hoars the ‘Royal Family.’ They 
lived in a large house, had good horses, and entertained 
constantly, but would have scorned any different scale of 
living from that of their friends and neighbors. I think the 
idea would never have occurred to them. Their youngest 
daughter, Beth, afterwards Mrs. Samuel Bowles, was very 
beautiful, with a radiant, rare kind of beauty, large blue 
eyes, a most elevated expression. Some said of her that she 
looked like the real ‘princess of the fairy tale.’ 

After my marriage, Judge Hoar came to see me one day. 
As there was no one else at home, we had a long talk in 
front of the fire, and he was most entertaining. He told me 
one story which I am quite sure I have never heard from 
any other source. 

‘I remember,’ he said, ‘going up the road somewhere 
with Mr. Emerson, Alcott, George William Curtis, and 
Frank Sanborn. When we started to take the train back 
at a tiny wayside station, we found it was going to be an 
hour and a half late. We wandered up the railroad track 
for some distance, to a place where the land sloped back in 
a gradual acclivity, a fence at the top. There being no- 
where to go in particular, and the fence at the top interfer- 
ing with a siesta upon the flat land above, we lay down — 


94 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


five of us — in a row slightly uphill with our hands under 
our heads, and talked philosophy until we heard the train 
shrieking in the distance.’ ; 

Frank Sanborn was one of the picturesque figures of the 
community, long and lank, with a kind of graceful awk- 
wardness which is, I think, one of the peculiarities of the 
Americans, both in New England and in the West. With 
rather long flat hair, a bright color, and twinkling eyes, he 
had a way of folding himself up in a chair, settling down in 
it, drooping his head to one side, and holding forth. I often 
think of the well-known story of how the anti-abolitionists 
tried to abduct him; how he spread his long limbs like a 
windmill, and of course they never got him in through the 
door of the coach. And when his sister-in-law seized the 
whip and lashed the horses into a frenzy, how surprised 
those abductors must have been! 

Thoreau I was never fortunate enough even to see, al- 
though he was a byword among my friends, having died 
before those years of my life in Concord. He was laughed 
at and criticised a great deal, and must have been in many 
ways a trial to the farmers, having a way of ignoring their 
rights, and telling them that their complaints about fires 
in their forests or clearings were stupid, because after all 
the landscape belonged quite as much to him as to them. 
Still, he was greatly appreciated by all the people of a lit- 
erary or intellectual turn of mind. I loved to hear the 
farmers talk about him. One of them used to say: 

‘Henry D. Thoreau — Henry D. Thoreau,’ jerking out 
the words with withering contempt. ‘His name ain’t no 
more Henry D. Thoreau than my name is Henry D. 
Thoreau. And everybody knows it, and he knows it. His 
name’s Da-a-vid Henry and it ain’t never been nothing 


CONCORD IN 1878 95 


but Da-a-vid Henry. And he knows that! Why, one morn- 
ing I went out in my field across there to the river, and 
there, beside that little old mud pond, was standing Da-a- 
vid Henry, and he wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but just standin’ 
there — lookin’ at that pond, and when I came back at 
noon, there he was standin’ with his hands behind him 
just lookin’ down into that pond, and after dinner when I 
come back again if there wan’t Da-a-vid standin’ there 
just like as if he had been there all day, gazin’ down into 
that pond, and I stopped and looked at him and I says, 
“Da-a-vid Henry, what air you a-doin’?” And he didn’t 
turn his head and he didn’t look at me. He kept on lookin’ 
down at that pond, and he said, as if he was thinkin’ about 
the stars in the heavens, “Mr. Murray, I’m a-studyin’ — 
the habits — of the bullfrog!” And there that darned fool 
had been standin’ — the livelong day — a-studyin’ — the 
habits — of the du//-frog!”’ 

And that, outside of his books, was all I ever knew of 
‘Da-a-vid Henry Thoreau.’ | 

As to Miss Ellen, there was never anybody like Miss 
Ellen. An admirer once said that when she gazed upon the 
face of Emerson she always felt that that face had seen 
God. The same might have been said of Miss Ellen. She 
certainly saw God. Some people claim that she never saw 
anything else — a difficult situation in this over-practical 
world. She went through life shedding a spiritual glory by 
way of her smile; small wonder that she took no account of 
changing styles, of foods, of passing states of mind. How 
could any one be practical who lived in the realm of the 
Beatitudes? 

I remember my cousin Marion, who was in her Sunday 
School class, saying, ‘I don’t care, Miss Ellen, I will not 


96 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


sing your wormy hymns any longer.’ I don’t know why 
Miss Ellen, a Unitarian, should have been exploiting 
wormy hymns, left over, probably, from some earlier phase 
of teaching, but I am glad my cousin said it, for it has kept 
a certain classic and otherwise forgotten poem in my mind. 

_ I don’t know whether he was indigenous to New England 
— he sounds like a negro spiritual — but it was there that 
I first met him, that tiny pale green worm, an inch and a 
half long, who got over the ground by planting his chin 
with perhaps a small portion of his anatomy upon the 
earth, drawing the end of his tail up under him, the middle 
of his body making a great loop in the air, and thus step by 
step working his way along the earth. His methods were 
evidently inspiring, for the hymn went: 


“Inchin’ along — inchin’ along — towards our God, 
Inchin’ along like a little inch worm; 
Inchin’ along — inchin’ along like a little inch worm.’ 


Such a beautiful sentiment! Perhaps Miss Ellen Weifedd 
it because she liked its humor. 

I remember one party at the Emerson Lani after Mr. 
Emerson had gone, when Mrs. Emerson sat at one side of 
the table facing us and her son Edward at the other. She 
was a picture in her simple black silk gown and her little 
Quaker-like cap. It was an exquisite cap of white muslin, 
with a slightly upstanding crown, little white flaps coming 
down upon her shoulders, and a tiny pale blue ribbon (ait 
‘it in place under her delicate chin. 

And how attentive he was to her, how reverent in his 
manner, whenever she ventured a remark, sometimes to 
interrupt him with a gentle, fragile gesture. Her face was 
like old ivory; she was very old at that time, and it seemed 
as if everything had left her except this spiritual beauty of 


MRS. RALPH WALDO EMERSON 


CONCORD IN 1878 97 
the life through which she had passed. I have never for- 


gotten it; in fact, years afterwards, when I went back to 
visit the house, it was brought most vividly to my memory 
— but to that we will come later. 

I remember so well Miss Ellen as she appeared that 
evening. She sat in the front row, facing her mother and 
brother at the table where she might have touched them 
at any minute, and where she did, now and then, offer 
some slight suggestion, her beautiful face uplifted, ab- 
sorbed, to theirs. It reminded me of something that Mr. 
French’s sister had written in one of her letters: ‘I went to 
a lecture by Mr. Emerson last night, said to be his ninety- 
ninth, and was impressed by the fact that his family were 
all seated in the front row, applauding as vigorously as if it 
were the first they had ever heard.’ 

On this particular evening, Miss Ellen wore a black silk 
gown made with a full skirt and a basque. No one except 
Miss Ellen wore basques at that time. They had gone out 
of fashion forty years before, but this little trimming 
which edged it about was a very ingenious trimming, and 
caught and held my fancy. It was made of a narrow fold of 
the same material, folded backward and forward so as to 
hunch up into little mounds that looked more or less like 
shells, and had been considered very artistic. Miss Ellen 
wore things that seemed to her beautiful, quite regardless 
of fashion, and which certainly suited her style. In the 
middle of the discussion, we adjourned into the dining- 
room, where we were fed, as I remember, upon creamed 
oysters and rolls and coffee and cake, quite a spread for 
those intellectual Concord days. 

_ Miss Ellen did the honors in the dining-room, in her 
simple, naturally elegant manner, and then we went back 


98 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


for a continuation of the lecture. She had been very busy 
looking out for the guests, and, after we were all seated, 
she came in, slightly hurried, a glass of milk in one hand, 
some graham crackers in the other, seated herself in her 
old place facing the speakers, and proceeded to drink the 
milk and eat the crackers, afterwards holding the empty 
glass in her hand, quite as unconscious of any unconven- 
tionality as if she had been a child of five. And why not? 
She had been otherwise occupied while other people were 
eating, and why go hungry in consequence of having been 
a good hostess? 

People said that they also saw her hurrying to the train 
in the morning, eating a roll or some kind of hurried break- 
fast, as she rode down the village street. She was a great 
power in the community, especially with the young people 
and in her Sunday School class, and I am sure that all the 
young people who worked with her carried through life 
with them something that was high and beautiful — 
Miss Ellen had given them. 

After my marriage she came to see me one day, and 
brought me our wedding present in her hand, unwrapped, 
through the village street. It was a brass pitcher some ten 
inches tall, to be used for hot water. It was a present which 
they gave to the young people of the family. In the middle 
of the front there were engraved the Emerson initials in 
big, rather square letters, and on the other side were our 
own initials, ‘M. F.’ and ‘D. C. FY’ 

The last time I saw Miss Ellen was at a family icdiag 
at which we were all present. It was the summer that our 
daughter was about fifteen years old, and only a few years 
before Miss Ellen’s death. She sat upon a low sofa against 
a background of white curtained windows. Her gown was 


CONCORD IN 1878 99 


of heavy ribbed silk of the palest, almost silvery robin’s- 
egg blue, the full skirt billowed out over the seat about her, 
the tight-fitting basque, the flat lace collar with its old- 
fashioned pin, and above it the beautiful small head with 
its white hair parted and drawn down into a small knot in 
the back of the neck, the uplifted face, eager, radiant, 
serene. I was always glad that my child could have seen 
her thus and could remember her as she looked that night. 

Years afterwards, during the war, we went back to Con- 
cord and took our daughter and son-in-law to see the Em- 
erson house. Miss Leagate and Miss Hurd, both friends of 
the Emerson family, were living there and did the honors. 
We sat about the tea-table in the big back room, and talked 
over old times, and I was impressed with the fact that, in- 
cluding our cousin, Miss Keyes, who was at the time our 
hostess, there were five people present who had known 
Mr. Emerson and the family. 

And the front room with the armchair in which he sat 
and wrote, and his books which were part of himself, from 
floor to ceiling, all kinds of volumes from other great au- 
thors, many of them from across the sea, several of them 
from Carlyle, some of them beautifully illustrated. 

I began to tell them about the evening so many years 
before when I had been present, and had watched Mrs. 
Emerson at the table beside her son and how beautiful and 
quaint she had been. I described her puritanical black 
gown, her lovely muslin cap, and started to say, ‘tied 
under the chin with very narrow pale blue ribbon,’ but I 
stopped — really that hardly sounded probable. I must 
be drawing upon my imagination. : 

Miss Leagate said, ‘Haven’t you seen the portrait of 
Mrs. Emerson, dressed just as you describe her?’ So we 


100 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


went upstairs, and there upon the landing — there she 
was looking just as I had seen her, some thirty years before, 
It was a pastel, the pale blue eyes gazing innocently into 
yours, the delicate features, fragile, it seemed to me, like a 
piece of Belleek china, as if they would evaporate at the 
slightest touch. There was the folded white fichu across 
the shoulders, the ethereal white cap, and — a tiny bow of 
narrow blue ribbon beneath the chin. I gave a sigh of re- 
lief. This memory, which had stayed with me for so many 
years, was true. . 


CHAPTER VII 
CHESTER: A PURITAN BACKGROUND 


Away up among the hills of New Hampshire, deserted by 
the railroad and by civilization generally, lies this tiny 
village where, a great many years ago in Puritan New 
England, were planted the seeds in which, by some strange 
and inexplicable method of natural selection, it was fore- 
ordained that Dan French should be born an artist. 

‘Why do you want’ — Judge French used to ask — 
‘why do you want to go delving back into the past and 
run your head into a halter?’ Still — though I am not as 
sure as was the man who said boldly, ‘I know that my 
ancestor didn’t come over in the Mayflower, for the very 
simple reason that he was in jail in England at the time 
the old ship sailed’ — I have always been given to under- 
stand that our mutual forbears came to America in 1630, 
settled in Ipswich, later in Epping, then in Chester, New 
Hampshire, which spot we of a later generation came to 
know and to love. 

It was a strange background for one who was not only 
an artist, but who has been all his life an apostle of beauty; 
it was a background that was certainly momentous; its 
stern character, its unyielding purpose, its bleak religion. 
- J love to read about them up there among their barren 
hills, these old ‘Gershoms’ and ‘Ebenezers’ and ‘ Keziahs,’ 
but I am thankful not to have been one of them. Which 
reminds me of an apt description which has stayed in my 
mind for many years. It ran something like this: “Those 
dear Puritans — we are so proud to be descended from 


102 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


them, and so thankful for each decade which removes us 
farther from them in descent.’ ; 

Also in the diary of one old parson, we read: 

Sunday, January Ist, wife gave birth to a nine pound boy. We 
named him ‘Gershom.’ 

Sunday, January 8th, we christened small Gershom. The 
snows were heavy, wife not yet strong enough to go to meeting. 


Sunday, January 15th, we buried little Gershom. Wife still 
too weak to attend the funeral. 


Could anything be more bleak, more cold, than a little 
newborn shivering baby in a linen shirt, fine linen, short, 
with narrow lace at neck and armpits? —I know those 
shirts, for there were some of them heirlooms in our 
family attic. I suppose he wore other clothes, but I can 
only think of the small slippery linen next his tender skin, 
when they marched him down through the piled-up snow, 
sprinkled him with ice water, and one week later buried 
him beneath the frozen ground! 

Not much in common between this little fellow and the 
standardized baby of modern days — born in a hospital, 
nurtured in an incubator, fed upon Mellin’s Food, 
mothered by a trained nurse — what do they know about 
the shivering babyhood of these early founders of our 
mighty race? 

The first time I ever saw Chester to remember it was 
upon a summer day when I was about eighteen. I left the 
railroad at the near-by town of Derry and drove over upon 
the stage. It was a bare black box of a structure, not at 
all like the low-swung gilded chariots which I had seen in 
museums and which were my idea of a stage-coach. I 
imagine it was the last of its kind. I rode, to my great 
delight, up in front with the driver, one Wilcomb, a 


CHESTER 103 


sociable, good-as-you-be Yankee, who knew all about me 
from the day I was born, and more, and settled down to give 
me a good time. It wasa long hard trip, or would have been 
to any one less young or less absorbed in every new phase 
of life than I. Winding around corners, ploughing through 
sandy ruts, up and down long hills, the horses always walk- 
ing when they were not standing still, stopping once or 
twice to leave a package or to pick up some benighted 
female who wanted to go still farther into the wilderness. 
The distance, I have heard later, was six miles. 

At the top of a long barren hill, we emerged into the 
little town of Chester. It was not so much a square as it 
was a spreading-out at one end of the long single street. 
There were the two white meeting-houses, the store, the 
small hotel, and the big old graveyard, where rested so 
many of the ‘Gershoms’ and the ‘Betseys’ who have left 
us old stories and old letters over which we used to pore. 

It was rather a pretty town — its long street, its big 
trees, its irregular paths by way of sidewalks, its nice old 
houses with their picket fences and Colonial doorways. 
Up near the end of the street stood our ancestral home, 
which our grandfather, Daniel French, had built in 1800, 
and where, with his vintage of wives and family of ten boys 
and girls, he had lived. And here Dan French and his 
brother Will had come year after year for their vacation. 

My Mr. French used to say that he had spent one 
month of every year of his life there, and always supposed, 
until he was old enough to know better, that it had been 
his entire summer, so glorified did those few weeks of 
vacation seem to him. 

One story that he used to tell must have been when he 
was very young indeed. Some of the older boys told him 


104 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


that, if he picked a pail of blueberries, the grocer would 
buy them; so he trudged off into the fields some distance 
from the house, and alone — which was not his custom — 
and worked hard until his pail was full. When he came 
back tired and hot, the man at the store did not want 
them, and so he went home and sat down upon the bulk- 
head at the side of the house with his pail of berries, and 
wept. He had never been in business before, and it did 
not enter his head to make another effort. Fortunately, 
Grandmother found him before his tears were dry, bought 
the berries, comforted him, and made him a pie. 

When I arrived that afternoon, I felt rather like an old 
print, descending from my perch at the side of the loqua- 
cious stage-driver. The family were all out in front, aunts 
and cousins, and in the background the little bent figure of 
the grandmother, the third and last of Daniel French’s 
Wives. | 

It was a large house — that is, a hall in the middle, and 
rather large rooms upon either side —the only three- 
storied house in the town. Across the roof was a railing 
decorated with little urns; also a fence in front with urns 
upon the gateposts, though this decoration was later re- 
moved, when the house was ‘made over.’ 

Inside the door was a small square hall, the steep stair- 
way going up at sharp angles a few steps at a time, with 
queer old family portraits upon the landings. | 

The guest-room I remember best; the highboy with 
brass handles which shook when we walked across the 
floor. 3 

That summer, when Dan French arrived, the first thing 
he did was to grab the newest visitor and take him up- 

stairs to see if those handles really rattled as violently as 


eek ic = 
: RR 


DANIEL FRENCH 
The author’s grandfather 


it” 


CHESTER 105 


he remembered them to have done. He came down in a 
few minutes to announce gleefully that they really did, 
especially if you stepped upon certain boards in the floor, 
or rather stamped on them. He said that if he could only 
feel the sheets frozen stiff about his mouth, and hear the 
ice crack in the bowl when he did his hurried bathing in 
the morning, it would make him feel like a boy again. + 
At the back of the house was the best parlor, large and 

square, its Puritanism mitigated by an incident that had 
happened in the family a few years before. My aunt 
Helen had, as she liked to express it, escaped spinsterhood, 
at the age of fifty-two, by marrying a well-to-do Boston 
gentleman some years older than herself, and brought him 
back with some of his possessions and settled him down in 
the old house in Chester, with some Louis Quinze furnt- 
ture, strangely out of place in the old room, also strangely 
luxurious and comfortable. 

The little grandmother was ninety when I first knew 
her, and she lived to be ninety-seven, the last remaining 
wife of old Daniel French. Her predecessors had been 
Mercy Brown and Betsy Van Mater Flagg, and her com- 
paratively dull drab name before her marriage had been 
Sarah Wingate Flagg. One of the disrespectful great- 
grandsons used to call her ‘S. Wingate’ for short, “just to 
make her feel young and perky,’ he said, her maiden name 
having not been mentioned for nearly a hundred years. 

She was a little woman, with a shawl over her shoulders, 
and wore a transformation, called in those days a ‘front.’ 
She was rather an important person in the neighborhood, 
having lived there in the same house for so many years, 
and also, though she would not have relished the idea, on 
‘account of her advanced age. On one occasion her neigh- 


106 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


bor, Miss S—— came in and brought a visiting friend to 
see her. The visiting friend, who came from a small town, 
showed a provincial and possibly patronizing interest in 
the old lady, asked her many questions as to her health, her 
memories, and the past life of the town, and finally said, 
‘Let me see, Mrs. French, I have forgotten just how old 
you;are?— this in a sympathetic and flattering tone. 
Grandma looked out of the window for a moment or two, 
turned back, and drew herself up, and after another mo- 
ment spoke. ‘Twenty-five — if it is any of your business,’ 
she answered tartly. And the visiting friend arose, 
gathered her mistaken interest to herself, and said good- 
bye. 

It was a quaint old village, with one street running, as it 
did, along the top of a ridge, lonely, but full of charm. 

‘Do you know,’ one of the cousins remarked upon her 

return from the post-office, ‘I went the whole length of 
the village street and never saw a soul, not even a Peeping — 
Tom at a window! Really, Lady Godiva would have a 
soft snap in Chester!’ | 3 

Down at the other end of the street, one of our favorite - 
walks was the cemetery where lay our aunts and uncles, 
who seemed, most of them, especially the women, to have — 
died of what they called a ‘wasting sickness.’ Apparently 
in those days they seldom mentioned consumption, though 
in one of the old letters an uncle referred to it as a possi- 
bility, and says that ‘the doctor is giving her mepiencie's but 
it seems to do no good.’ | 

They slept in bitter-cold rooms, and bathed in bitter- 
cold water, and roasted themselves in front of blazing 
fires. They worked around the house in the morning in 
low-necked dresses without sleeves, and in the evening 


CHESTER 107 


put little capes over their shoulders as being more dressy, 
and took no systematic out-of-door exercise, except per- 
haps some few among the more highly educated. Still, as 
I think of it, there were two sides to it. They were at 
least allowed to die peacefully in their beds. They were 
not put through all the surgical gymnastics of the modern 
clinic, and every known organ was not pried off them as is 
done by the modern method. At least there were some 
things to be said in its favor. 

Opposite the house was a little one-room building which 
had been Grandfather French’s office. 

There was also an old road leading down to somewhere 
in the woods, which we called ‘Love Lane,’ immortalized 
to us younger people as the spot where, so many years 
before, our Uncle Major, unknown to any one, had strolled 
down with his Bess one cold moonlight night, the ground 
covered with snow, and had married her. The Major 
must have been a gay blade in his young days to have 
dared such a thing in the all-seeing town of Chester. 

One of the stories also was that when the young couple 
first returned to the old Richardson house — they had 
kept the marriage secret for a long time — to break the 
news and ask forgiveness, they sauntered down the street, 
paused, and two or three times turned back. Finally they 
saw old Judge Richardson, the bride’s father, reading at 
the open parlor window. Not knowing what to say, and 
being greatly embarrassed, they finally went off once 
again, and brought back the marriage certificate. They 
stood out of sight, and poked this paper up until it rested 
upon the window-sill — doubtless the woman, then as 
now, had to do it — and then, like two frightened children, 
they ran away. | 


108 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Later in the day, they returned, expecting to find the 
certificate thrown out upon the grass, but there it was, 
resting just where they had left it. They opened it — it 
had evidently been read, for across the top of it was 
written, ‘If my daughter is such a foo/, as to marry such a 
man, in such a way, I have no comment to make, and I 
hereby send them my blessing. (Signed) Wm. Merchant 
Richardson.’ (Chief Justice of the State of New Hamp- 
shire.) 

There was the old Timothy Dexter House upon the 
village street where the eccentric old man lived at one — 
time, and shed a certain glory on the old town, largely 
through his self-appropriated title, for titles in those days 
were scarce — anyway in the New England Hills. The 
chief tradition about him, outside of his having sent 
warming-pans to the West Indies, was that he was 
thrashed in the Chester street, for some impertinence, by 
a citizen of the town. His house is now occupied at times 
by the Amos Tuck Frenches of Tuxedo. | 

Then there was the Richardson house, the home of 
Chief Justice Richardson, my child’s maternal great- 
grandfather. There were a good many offspring daugh- 
ters in the Richardson family, and a good many of both 
sexes in the French household over the way, and finally so 
many Frenches married so many Richardsons that there 
were not enough of the latter to go round, and my father 
Edmund went off to Washington and married my mother, 


which accounts for me in my reflected glory in these — 


memories. They were all of them intellectual, mostly 
judges, district attorneys, and so on, and several of them 
drew and painted after the style of the day. There is much 
in their letters of visits to Boston and Washington, in- 


CHESTER 109 


augural balls and festivities, in which they seemed to take 
turns. In one old letter I find an aunt writing to her sister 
in Boston: ‘There is a young man who writes for the 
Boston in whose weekly articles we are greatly in- 
terested. Some consider him over-liberal and extreme, 
but I read everything he says, and find something most 
unusual and inspiring in his ideas and his philosophy. 
His name is Ralph Waldo Emerson.’ 

Also a story of how a group of them, Judge French, 
Judge Richardson, Senator Bell, and several others bought 
an illustrated volume of Hogarth, and took turns in keep- 
ing it in the family as a circulating art gallery. In after 
years Judge French bought it in, so to speak, and shortly 
afterwards some one offered to buy it for three times what 
he paid for it, which, of course, he refused. In one of his 
letters to Dan in Italy he says, ‘I always kind of suspected 
I should have an artist son who would want it.’ For many 
years now it has reposed upon the table in Mr. French’s 
writing-room at ‘Chesterwood.’ 

Franklin Pierce, who was an intimate of both Major 
French and Judge French, was constantly at the house, 
and the latter writes to his brother in Washington, ‘Pierce 
seems to have taken a great shine to Ann.” (This was Ann 
Richardson, whom he himself afterwards married.) ‘He is 
very devoted, and follows her about everywhere.’ And so 
Dan French, had he been sufficiently foresighted, might 
have been born in the White House! 

There is a little picture of two of the aunts, Aunt Katie 
and Aunt Ariana, playing chess. They sat opposite each 
other in profile, fingering the chess-men; in the little capes 
and mitts, which they wore in the afternoon for dress; and 
I can see Aunt Ariana jump up every now and then and go 


110 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


to the window, as they say she did, and exclaim, ‘Sister, 
there’s passing — there’s passing!’ 7 

In an old book I find a paragraph, ‘There was one 
parson, the Rev. Ebenezer Flagg, in Chester, our great- 
grandfather, I believe, who was so fond of the young 
people that he made it easy for them upon all occasions, 
and married all who came to him for that purpose.’ The 
runaway couples in Vermont used to cross over in such 
numbers that Chester became a kind of Gretna Green, and 
they were called ‘Flagg-marriages.’ 

The greatest treasure in the family was a portrait by 
Copley of one of the ancestors, a very early picture — 
Copley, I believe, began to paint at sixteen. It is a little 
boy of five, though no one would have recognized him as a 
child if he were not so labelled. He was dressed in Con- 
tinental frock coat, stock and wig, and carried a small red 
book. Poor little tot! I hope his pride made up to him for 
being squeezed into this semblance of a little man! This 
little William Merchant must have grown up into a lively 
youth, for I find that he was one of the party which threw 
the tea into the Boston Harbor, and, in an old scrapbook, 
that he was one of the youths who started the Boston ~ 
Massacre: 


A few minutes after nine o’clock four youths named Edward 
Archibald, William Merchant, Francis Archibald and John 
Leach, Jun. came down Cornhill together, and separating at 
Doctor Loring’s corner, the two former were passing the narrow 
alley leading to Murray’s barrack in which was a soldier bran- 
dishing a sword of uncommon size against the walls, out of which 
he struck fire plentifully.... Archibald admonished Mr. Mer- 
chant to take care of the sword, on which... the soldier then 
pushed at Merchant and pierced through his clothes inside the 
arm close to the armpit and grazed the skin. Merchant then 
struck the soldier with a sharp stick. ) 


THE TWO AUNTS PLAYING CHESS 


i 


CHESTER 111 
Quite accidentally Judge French found this old por- 


trait in the house of a relation down in Lowell. General 
Richardson seems to have been a cultivated man, but his 
wife was evidently of a simple and more provincial taste. 
She showed him with great pride her parlor, made over 
from its early New England austerity — on the whole I 
rather sympathize with her as to that — into a gold and 
brocade imitation of a Paris salon. The one thing of any 
real value, the Copley of our Revolutionary ancestor, she 
seemed to pass over with indifference. My uncle stood, 
gazing at it eagerly, conscious of the fact that it was dirty 
and streaky and sadly in need of renovation, while his 
hostess rambled along, and finally remarked sympa- 
thetically, ‘The face is kind of sweet, isn’t it? I often tell 
the General if he’d just let me have it painted over in 
modern clothes, and kind of childish, 1t would be real 
nice.’ 

Judge French, gasping but prudent, kept his emotions to 
himself, explained to her that it was in a very bad condi- 
tion, and wondered whether she would let him take it home 
and have it looked after. To this, Mrs. Richardson eagerly 
agreed, thankful, doubtless, to have such a sore spot re- 
moved from her gold and brocade surfaces. 

‘I have it,’ wrote the Judge to his brother in Washing- 
ton, ‘hanging upon the wall in my parlor. Don’t ever 
mention it. Perhaps she will never think of it again.’ 


One day every spring Dan French and his father went 
up to Chester, stayed over two nights, and planted Grand- 
ma’s garden. Dan always said it was a reflection upon 
ordinary country methods to see the way his father, a busy 
lawyer, a scientific farmer, planned that garden and put it 


112 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


through in that short time, the helper, James Landigan, 
taking care of it in a few hours each week. 

Dan was never greatly interested in farming, but he 
worked at it steadily enough, and the only thing I have 
ever known him to lay up against his father — and that 
only in a half-humorous way — was that he was obliged to 
get up and work before breakfast. It always made him 
feel mean, he said, and the older man could never quite 
understand why. 

I have also heard him tell how upon one occasion his 
father came into his room in the middle of the night, and 
a thunderstorm, and asked him to go-out and see to the 
barn door which was flapping in the wind. So he dressed 
himself and went out through the sheds into the barn. The 
first thing he did, of course, was to bang into the hayrick, 
and he went back fairly disgruntled. The next morning at 
breakfast his father told him that he had lain awake and 
listened to the barn door banging, realizing what havoc it 
would make if torn off its hinges, and thinking that in a 
moment he would get up and go and see to it himself. — 
Finally, he decided that it was hardly dignified that he 
should go prowling around in the dark and rain, with a 
seventeen-year-old son asleep in the house. i 

He was always fond of his joke, and once when the two 
were putting on a storm door, the younger man at the top 
of the ladder paused suddenly — there seemed to be an 
alarming discrepancy between the end a the bi frame 
and his foothold. 

‘Oh, go ahead, Dan,’ cheered his satan it’s safe, and 
anyhow I’d trust you where I wouldn’t trust myself.’ 

The adolescent artist was fond of his life in the country, 
of stuffing birds, of hunting birds’ eggs, of wandering in 


ea ee 


CHESTER 113 


\ 


the woods, rather than of work upon the farm in which his 
father was so interested. He says he remembers, with 
chagrin, one evening when his father took him out into 
the fields back of the house to talk over some questions 
which had to do with the crops, and only years later, he re- 
alized how little interest he must have shown and how 
absorbed he must have been in the beauty of the evening 
and the sunset. | 

Upon one occasion some members of the State Agricul- 
tural Society who were in Concord were giving an exhibi- 
tion of various phases of farm work, and Judge French took 
his young son down to watch them and their experiments. 
Various men ploughed long lines across the field with, 
to Judge French’s idea, no great success. He finally sug- 
gested that his son Dan could do as well as that. At this, 
Dan started in and drove the plough across the field with 
what he considered only tolerable success. He wanted to 
do it over again, but apparently he had made a hit. They 
all thought that he had ploughed an unusually straight 
furrow and were so enthusiastic that his father considered 
it unnecessary to try a second time, though he, himself, 
always admitted that his success was artistic rather than 


- agricultural. 


When Dan first lived in Washington, he used to like to 
tell some especially frivolous society girl about the time in 
his youth when he sold turnips on the streets of Boston. 
It seems that a young man on a neighboring farm was in 
the habit of making daily or rather nightly trips into Bos- 
ton with loads of produce which he sold at the market. 
This seemed greatly to appeal to the young sculptor, only 
a boy at the time, especially as the wagon left before day- 
light, and upon one occasion his friend and neighbor told 


114 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


him that he might come with him and see the sights. So 
they started off at three o’clock in the morning, the horses 
walking along through the beautiful suburbs of Boston 
with the half-grown boy, to whom it was all new, marvel- 
ling over the sunrise and the unusual sights at the break of 
day. 

When they reached the market, the older boy backed up 
his cart and told his young assistant to sit there and watch 
things while he went off on an errand. 

‘If any one should want to buy anything, of course you 
could sell it; turnips so much, carrots so much, etc.’ 

In about twenty minutes he reappeared. ‘Every- 
thing all right?’ he asked. 

‘Oh, yes,’ said Dan, ‘I sold something.’ 

‘What did you sell?’ 

‘A peck of turnips, announced Dan chincotallis ‘for 
nineteen cents.’ 

‘That’s good,’ and his friend began to climb into the © 
wagon. He stopped suddenly, ‘Where’s the measure?’ — 

‘Oh,’ demurred Dan apologetically, ‘the man took it off 
with him, and said he would bring it back later.’ 

And he used to say that the way that boy disappeared 
around the corner, and after a moment came running back 
grasping that measure in his arms, made him feel that his 
first venture in bargaining had not been entirely successful! 

One of our aunts, Aunt Helen, a friend of our childhood, 
was rather a character in the old house and lived there for 
many years after the others had passed on. She was intel- 
lectual, witty, most interesting, but cared more for worldly 
things than had been the habit of the family. 

Once, when Dan was telling this turnips story to a group 
of young people, my aunt sat listening, then she turned 


CHESTER | 116 


to me, and, with a little patient expression, as if she could 
hardly stand it, she said, ‘I shouldn’t think Dan would 
tell that story. Sometime it might be misunderstood.’ 
Which we young people considered rather more of a joke 
than the original story. 

Our Aunt Helen was, however, a brilliant woman and 
always a joy in the family circle. She wrote to her niece on 
one occasion: ‘Maria B died and I hastened down to 
her funeral, hoping that her age would be divulged as is 
usual upon the coffin plate. But alas! she guarded her secret 
even in death. If she had had a niece like you, a possessor 
of all the superfluous and embarrassing knowledge of the 
family circle, it would have been blazoned forth to the 
world.’ 

In one of her letters she says that her ‘late-in-life’ 
husband had been busy for a week at the sheds at the back 
of the house. ‘They are at last finished, a continuous and 
unbroken line from the house to the barn, and Mr. Coch- 
rane is triumphant — the cow can now walk into the 
kitchen in rainy weather without wetting her feet.’ 

In 1902 the old home burned to the ground one winter 
night, carrying most of our memories of Chester with it, 
and the old lady, having lived in it for over seventy years, 
was unable to survive, and went down to join the ‘Betseys’ 
and the ‘Gershoms’ in the cemetery at the end of the 
street. 


CHAPTER VIII 
MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 


THOSE years in Washington, after I had grown up, were 
happy enough at the time, and happy enough as I look 
back upon them, but they were certainly not a period dur- 
ing which I either achieved greatness or had greatness 
thrust upon me; a perfectly commonplace existence with 
only glimpses now and then of the great events or the great 
people who make it in any way worth recording; fleeting 
glimpses of celebrities, of Presidents, and of official life, 
which appealed to me for the moment, but which, with the 
heedlessness of youth, I promptly forgot: Frances Hodg- 
son Burnett, Mrs. Kate Chase Sprague, George Senet 
Mrs. Cleveland, Peary. 

My brothers were growing to manhood, pipes nite to 
the four corners of the earth, and Washington had lost 
some of its Southern character, save for the darkies, of 
course. As long as I lived there, my life was intimately and 
humorously associated with the darkies—old Uncle 
Harris, old Uncle Lloyd, Aunt Sarah, and so on. 

My cousin Dan, before he settled permanently in 
Concord and Boston, as he did later, spent the first two 
winters after his return from abroad in Washington, where 
his father had already found him a studio. He lived with 
his family in the old house of the beautiful aunt — for the 
dear Major of my early days had long ago passed on —and 
it was there that I became acquainted with him, though I 
saw him but little, being still in the seclusion of my con- 


ee ge OS 


MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 117 


vent school. Artists were rare in Washington in those days, 
and especially sculptors — rare and romantic — and it 
seemed quite natural to me that he should be invited to 
everything from the White House down. I suppose he 
went about, more or less, but very little compared to most 


of the young Washington men whom I knew, because, he 


said, it interfered with his work. 

- I remember, on one particular occasion, when he in- 
sisted on going back to Boston, my young aunt and I 
urged him, begged him, to stay for a German, which she 
was giving, my first, and how cross it made us that he disre- 


garded our pleadings and went off to Boston and to busi- 


ness. Indeed, after all these years, when I stop and think 
about it, it makes me cross even now! 

However, during these next years, his father’s letters are 
full of references to his life and to his work, also of the 
mildly interesting life in Washington. The two brothers — 
what a long list of Presidents they knew, from ’33 to about 
"8c. for, within a few years of the Major’s death, his 
brother Henry came and took up his abode in Washington. 

There was a great bond between this father and son. 
The father’s advice was of the pleasantest kind. ‘Do you 
want a suggestion? No, of course you don’t. Well, here it 
is And on the part of the younger man, just back from 
the charm and romance of Florence, a desire to make good 
for the sake of the older man waiting at home; also a great 
community of interests, the study of art, the love of humor, 
and beauty wherever they found it, especially beauty of 
the human face and form. 

‘How you Frenches’— Mrs. Preston used to say — 
‘how you Frenches find handsome and agreeable women 
wherever you go!’ And Judge French’s comment to his 


118 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


son was, “Of course we do; there are affinities all through 
nature.’ i 

‘He was always humorously urging him to marry and 
settle down, often picking out girls for him. 

“Why don’t you hurry up? Janet will be tired of wait- 
ing’; or, ‘I haven’t any particular girl to recommend to 
you at just this moment.’ 

“We think your photograph,’ he writes, ‘not very good. 
Pamela says you hold your nose too high, and Sarita says 
it is not handsome enough. In vain I tell them that you 
have grown homely. Of course Dolly is lovely, and of 
course you found it out too late—on the day of her 
wedding.’ 

At one time he urges him not to let people Jew him 
down; not to work for less than his price; which was good 
advice, for the expenses of sculpture were, and still are, but 
ill-understood. ‘Doubtless,’ he writes upon one occasion, - 
“they will expect you to make them a present of the statue 
and me to give them the pedestal.’ 

Now and then I came in for a compliment, but only in 
the background. In those days, I was called ‘Mamie,’ 
and, though it would grate upon me now, I never thought 
of it at the time, for everybody was ‘Mamie’ and ‘Kittie’ 
and ‘Willie.’ 

“We are going,’ he writes, ‘to All-Souls’ to-morrow to 
hear the music. Mamie will be there, because Richardson 
[Chief Justice Richardson] has invited her to sit in his 
pew regularly — “simply as an ornament,” he tells me.’ 

At another time, though I regret that I read of it only 
many years afterwards: ‘Mamie looked outrageously 
handsome when I met her yesterday making calls’; by 
which I suppose he referred to my hat and my elaborate 


MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 11g 


hair. In later years, when I used to remonstrate with my 
child about Aer hair, her answer was, ‘Well, at any rate, it 
doesn’t make me look homely and forlorn.’ And so history 
repeats itself, and that little comment makes me much 
more lenient to this obstreperous younger generation. 

For fear of the accusation of vanity — if vanity there 
be in recalling the charms of one’s youth, long since for- 
gotten — I must be honest and tell at least one of the un- 
complimentary compliments of those early years. I 
wandered, one day, when I was about twenty-three years 
old, into a candy shop on Pennsylvania Avenue which 
served, in some small measure, as the modern tea-shop. 
Every one went there in the late afternoon for candy or 
soda. I noticed that one of the girls behind the counter 
watched me studiously and constantly. This, with the 
confidence of youth, I accepted as admiration either of my 
looks or my clothes. Later, when she handed me my box 
of bonbons, she said affably: 

‘Is this Miss Mamie French?’ 

I admitted graciously that it was. 

‘Well,’ she said, ‘don’t you remember me? My name’s 
Carrie Hurd, and I used to know you years ago up in 
Herndon.’ 

I did faintly remember, ’way back when I was perhaps 
fifteen or sixteen and used to visit in Virginia, that there 
was in the neighborhood a family of boys and girls by the 
name of Hurd, though I hardly knew them, and I should 
never have recalled her; still I bowed again most gra- 
ciously, and admitted that I remembered. her and her 
brothers and household. 

‘Well,’ said she, with deep satisfaction, “I thought the 
minute I saw you in here, about a week ago, that I knew 


120 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE * 


you, and I asked somebody and they said, “Why, that’s 
Miss Mamie French of Capitol Hill.” I knew you,’ she 
said, nodding her head wisely, ‘I kind ’a’ knew you as - 
soon as I saw you, but law, Miss Mamie, how you has = 
off in looks!’ 

Surely a left-handed compliment and a joke whiehive one 
could tell and laugh at all her life! 

The darkies, on the other hand, were always compli- 
mentary. ‘I ’clars to goodness, Miss Mamie, old Uncle 
Lloyd used to say — ‘I ’clars to goodness, you suttinly 
does lay over an’ above all the young ladies round ’bout 
heah.’ The best of us melt at the assumption of our supe- 
riority handed out to us in the confiding manner and the 
mellifluous tones of an adoring servitor. 

I first heard of Uncle Lloyd when I was eighteen or 
twenty, on the occasion of my mother giving a black 
gown to the still blacker chambermaid. It was too big for 
her, and Diana asked if ‘Miss Magit’ would mind if she 
sold it. 

‘No,’ agreed my mother, ‘you can sell it and keep the 
money.’ 

And a few days later, Diana came to her, a broad grin 
on her ebony face. 

‘Ah done sole de dress, Miss Magit.’ 

‘That’s good,’ said my mother; ‘to whom did you sell 
it?’ 

‘Why, Ah sole it,’ beamed Diana, ‘to old Mistah Lloyd 
Henry fer to lay his wife out in.’ 

‘Oh,’ my mother sympathized, ‘is she dead? Poor thing, 
I’m sorry.’ 

“Well, no,’ admitted Diana, ‘Ah cain’t rightly say she’s 
daid, but she’s awful sick an’ he’s gwine lay her out in it.’ 


MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 121 


But Aunt Sarah didn’t die. She was much younger than 
her husband, and she got well, and wore the dress to church 
off and on for a long period of years, and also became an 
sntimate friend of our family. She was a wonderful worker 
and a faithful, gentle, and devoted creature. To be sure, 
she was drunk a good deal of the time; as one of her gentle- 
men friends remarked, ‘Sary Lloyd, she’s a berry nice lady, 
but she will get drunk.’ But unless she was very, very 
drunk indeed, she did her work well, and satisfied all of us. 
She cooked better than anybody, and spoiled the children, 
and one of my brothers used to say that he had rather have 
Aunt Sarah drunk than any half-dozen of the other negroes 
sober about the place. 

She was quite beautiful, old Aunt Sarah, blacker than 
the proverbial ace of spades, with the flat nose of her race, 
but otherwise fine features. My artist cousin used to say 
that she ought to have been stood under a mantel with her 
arms up and cut in black marble for a Nubian Caryatid. 
When we repeated this to her, she seemed not greatly 
taken with the idea, and I’m sure she always thought we 
were calling her a Katydid. She had a rare smile, and a 
voice that would charm the quills out of a porcupine. Ican 
hear her now, wheedling the pet cow who lived in the shed 
at the foot of the garden. 
~ €Come on, Ara-del/-la’ — her voice mellifluous and con- 
fiding. ‘Ara-bel'-la, come on. I ain’t gwine hurt yer. I’se 
yer friend. Now be good girl, Ara-del’-la, please come on.’ 
And Arabella always came, as did we all of us. | 

She would go for months, sometimes, perfectly straight, 
and then, with all the washing in the tubs out in the kitchen 
yard, she would disappear, and there would be great 
excitement as to who could finish the clothes, wash and 


122 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


iron them, for a week’s wash in those days was much more 
of an undertaking than it is now. 

‘I remember another time, when we were having a 
family party of fifteen or twenty, on the side lawn, and the 
cry had gone forth an hour or two before supper that Aunt 
Sarah was off on a spree, and we had all worked, cutting 
ham, fixing salads, carrying things back and forth, for she 
was a general and took charge of everything when she was 
sober. We were all eating the products of our afternoon’s 
work, and just beginning to have a good time, when some- 
body said, ‘Look!’ And there was Aunt Sarah leaning over 
the fence, her two elbows resting comfortably upon the 
pickets, and her bonnet, which she wore only at such times, 
and which the boys called her ‘jag bonnet,’ because of the 
bedraggled feather which had a way of turning around 
and dancing down into her eyes. There she stood, with 
the most divine expression on her face. ‘My Lawd!’ she 
called to us, ‘but ain’t yo’all having a good time!’ 

And Harriet, whose ‘face was black,’ so she sometimes 
reminded us — whose ‘face was black, but whose heart 
was white’ — who lived with us eighteen faithful years, 
the devoted slave of my mother and her children, and who, 
after an absence of many, many years, came back un- 
expectedly into our lives. She married, and after my mo- 
ther’s death, for certainly thirty years we lost sight of her. 
Then one day my sister, who had gone back to Washing- 
ton to live, noticed, upon Pennsylvania Avenue, a woman 
standing gazing into a shop window. She was little, and 
old, and black, but erect and spry and wore big goggles. 

Almost before she realized what she was doing, she 
touched her upon the arm. 

‘Is that you, Harriet?’ she asked. 


MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 123 


- The little woman turned, threw up her hands, precipi- 
tated herself upon my sister’s breast, and embraced her. | 
_ ‘Fo’ de Lawd’s sake, Miss Daisy!’ she cried. ‘Please 
fo’give me, but you done took me so by s’prise that Ah 
don’ know what Ah’s doin’.’ 

A few days later she turned up at the hotel where my 
sister was living. 

‘Ah’se gwine give up my place, Miss Daisy,’ she an- 
nounced, ‘an’ Ah’se gwine to live with yo’.’ , 

‘Indeed you’re not going to do anything of the kind,’ 
said my sister. ‘I’m living here at an apartment hotel. 
I can have my meals downstairs when I want to, and I like 
a little light housekeeping.’ 
| The next week Harriet turned up again, her face thin 
and old, but eager, her figure as erect and quick in motion 
as if she had been twenty instead of seventy. 

‘Well,’ she announced cheerfully, ‘Ah done give up my 
job, Miss Daisy.’ 

‘Now what on earth did you do that for?’ admonished 
my sister severely. cated 

‘Why did Ah do it? Why, Ah did it cause Ah’m comin’ 
to live with yo’ and take care of yo’.’ 

‘But I don’t need you,’ protested my sister. ‘I can’t 
afford to have a maid.’ 

Harriet sat down stiffly upon a chair and crossed her 
hands complacently. 

Yo’ doan has to ’ford me,’ she announced. ‘Ah’se got 
it all fixed. Ah’se comin’ to yo’ three days a week an’ take 
care of yo’. An’ yo’se gwine to pay me a‘dollar a day.’ 
She put up her hand and nodded her head severely. ‘Ah 
knows what Ah’m talkin’ about. Yo’ can ford that, 
"cause Ah can save yo’ that much, Doan yo’ bother *bout 


124 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE ” 


money, chile. Ah’se here, an’ Ah’se gwine to stay, an’ 
Ah’se gwine to take care of yo’ the rest of yore life.’ 

So she came three days a week and did home cooking 
for ‘her chile,’ and when she had made the chicken into a 
roast, and a pie, and a salad, and stewed the bones into a 
soup, she took the rest home with her, and used it as a 
kind of a ‘charm’ to season the food for herself and her 
husband. 

Later, when I saw her, and thanked her for her jovelon, 
and told her how glad I was to have her there with my 
sister, she stood and looked at me and meditated a mo- 
ment. 

‘Well, Miss Mamie,’ she said, ‘when Ah seen Miss 
Daisy stan’in’ there on the Avenue, it all come back to me, 
how good your mother was to me. Ah never had no 
mother in my life ’ceptin’ her, an’ when Ah began to think 
*bout it — Ah see what my duty was, an’ Ah done it.’ 

And there she has stayed for the last few years, taking — 
care of my sister, coming in town — an hour’s trip each — 
way on the trolley, saving, pinching, doing what she felt — 
was her duty, wearing two or three flannel petticoats, and 
high leggings, and a cap under her hat, so that “she never 
had a sick day in her life,’ happy herself, and making 
every one happy around her. 

* On one occasion a friend of my mother was very anxious 
to see the colored service, so I took her to the big church 
uptown — I have forgotten the name — as being more 
imposing and interesting than the small one near at hand. 
With their usual kindliness, seeing strangers, white people, 
they led us up the aisle and gave us the very front seat, — 
where my friend was immediately deeply interested, in 
fact, so interested, at times so shaken with smothered 


MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 125 


Jaughter, that I was afraid we might be asked to retire. 
Fortunately, however, the congregation were too absorbed 
in their own doings to notice. 

The minister stood in a very high pulpit, we gazing up 
at him when we dared to lift our faces. Just below him, 
on a shelf, which seemed to be part of the reading-desk, 
stood a common white porcelain pitcher filled with 
flowers. He would grow eloquent, stretch forth his arms, 
raise his voice, and then, having worked himself up into a 
fever, would fumble around for the pitcher, slide his 
fingers down into it beside the flowers, let them rest in the 
water a minute, then still holding forth, almost uncon- 
scious of what he was doing, would draw them out, and 
dry them somewhat surreptitiously upon a handkerchief. 
This was all done quite unconsciously. It was as simple 
and instinctive as the impassioned story which he poured 
forth upon our unsuspecting heads. 

‘When de Lawd he riz up from de daid,’ he said, with 
closed eyes and uplifted face — ‘when de Lawd he riz up 
from de daid, who’d he ’pear to? He "peared — to — 
Mary Magdalene. Dat’s so, he ’peared to Mary Mag- 
dalene. He didn’t pear to no man.’ Suddenly he opened 
his eyes and squinted down at the congregation. ‘He 
didn’t ’pear to no man. He ’peared to Mary Magdalene. 
He knowed what he was bout. Mary Magdalene, she was 
a woman! He knowed, if He ’peared to a woman’ —a 
long pause — ‘it’d be all over town ‘fo’ night!’ 


But besides the darkies of whom I always think when 
I go back to those early days, and besides the dear family 
circle, there were others — celebrities — of much interest 
to the public at large. 


126 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Perhaps the one who was most of a celebrity at that 
time, and whom I knew best, was Mrs. Frances Hodgson 
Burnett. She was the intimate friend of my young aunt, 
and with her I was constantly at the house. She had just 
written ‘That Lass o’ Lowrie’s’ and had come to Washing- 
ton to live. The book had made a furor. She had money, 
suddenly and in plenty, and was pretty, and probably 
the most-sought-after woman in the literary world. Later 
she grew somewhat heavy, and gave the appearance of 
being short. I remember when I first saw her seated, I 
thought of her as a rather large, imposing figure, but later, 
when she rose to her feet, I was surprised to find how 
short she was — not undersized, but much less imposing. 
My brother-in-law remarked that it was always surprising 
to see Mrs. Burnett ‘get down’ from her chair. 

During those early years, however, she was a charming 
personality; a great deal of wonderful reddish hair, the 
delicate skin that goes with it, and a childishly naive 
manner, the quality of which we feel in her books, of peren- 
nial youth, and which always clung to her, to those who 
knew her best. People were crazy about her. All the 
celebrities who came to Washington, either Americans or 
foreigners, statesmen, men of letters, were there on her 
evenings at home, and, as my young aunt was her most 
intimate friend, I saw more or less of these gatherings, 
though I was young enough to be kept rather i in the back- 
ground. 

In fact, the great night, when Oscar Wilde was a Ren 
at her house, I was not allowed to go, at least I was not 
even thought of. Dear Mrs. Burnett was always so kind 
that she would have done anything to give me pleasure, — 
but I was so young that it probably never occurred to any 


“MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 127 


-one that I would appreciate meeting this man, whose 
name was on everybody’s lips in two continents. So I 
stayed at home and was thrilled to hear about it from my 
aunt. 

The name of Oscar Wilde was, at that time, almost like 
a topical song. Gilbert and Sullivan, in ‘Patience,’ had 
made him and his cult so famous that everybody on every 
street corner knew about him. He was here lecturing, and, 
while there was a great deal of amusement and laughter 
at his expense, his poetry had attracted serious attention, 
_and every one flocked to see him. He was the first to wear 
knee-breeches, his long hair parted in the middle, his long 
sallow face and rather stooping figure, and even the imi- 
tations of it, of which the country began to be full, were 
recognized everywhere. I think we came hardly to know 
_ which was which, the pictures of Wilde himself or of his 
double, Bunthorne, Gilbert and Sullivan’s inimitable 
caricature of him. Young men dressed like him — the 
knee-breeches, the velvet coat, the flower, became a cult. 


“As I walk down Piccadilly 
With a poppy or a lily 
In my medieval hand, 
And every one will say, 
As I take my mystic way, 
If this young man expresses himself 
In terms too deep for me, 
Why, what a very singularly deep young man 
This deep young man must be!’ 


Can’t you see him that night in Mrs. Burnett’s drawing- 
room, standing beside the fireplace beside his hostess, his 
black satin knee-breeches — probably the only pair of 
knee-breeches in America at that time — silk stockings 
and ruffled shirt, pumps, and a stiff flower in his button- 


128 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


hole, not a sunflower — that, I believe was only used in 
the caricatures; the flattened hair, curling out over his 
ears, that long sallow face, and the people being taken up 
to be presented to him! 

A little Washington débutante came across the room, 
held out a closed fan upon the end of which rested a tiny 
frosted cake. 

} ‘Here is food for you — and the gods, Mr. Wilde,’ she 
said somewhat pertly, implying, of course, that he was too 
ethereal to want solid food. | 

My aunt said that he watched the girl a moment, and 
then smiled his rather languid, charming smile. 

‘Run away, little girl,’ he said gently, as if he were 
speaking to a small child — his voice was very beautiful. 
‘Go back to the dining-room and eat your supper. 

In Boston, where he was to lecture, the Harvard stu- 
dents, then as now eager to play a joke on any one — and 
certainly Oscar Wilde was an appropriate subject for 
jokes — came to the theatre, occupying two front rows 
in the orchestra, every man of them in knee-breeches and 
buckles, large sunflowers in the lapels of their black velvet 
jackets, their hair parted and plastered down on each side 
of their faces, and each posing in the most woe-begone and 
poetic attitude. How the object of this criticism got wind 
of what was going to happen, no one knew, but when the 
curtain went up, and for the moment the stage was bare, 
the whole audience listened, eager with excitement, 
breathless. 

_ From the door at the back of the stage suddenly ap- 
peared a slender young man, rather tall, very erect, his 
hair brushed back, just like ordinary young men, in the 
most immaculate of evening clothes — from top to toe 


dNOUO § HONAUT TAINVAG YOd HOLANS GNV UASAAO TNAHLIVA GTO 10 HdVUDOLOHd 


a 


e 


MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 129 


dressed like the most advanced and dignified Boston 
gentleman, or college student. : 

He stood silently, thoughtfully, his head on one side, for 
a moment, and gazed down upon the two rows of Bun- 
thornes in the audience, and when he spoke, it was gently, 
pensively, that he said, ‘I am very much pleased to see 
that the small seed that I have had the honor to sow has 
borne its fruit’; and then quietly, entirely master of the 
situation, proceeded with his lecture. 

It must have given him a thrill for many a year to get 
ahead, publicly, of a critical audience of two entire front 
rows of Harvard freshmen. 

The next time I saw him was in Paris some fifteen years 
later, and he was dressed, alas, just like anybody, and had 
grown fat. For one who had known him, or even known 
his photographs, in the days when he was a cult, it was 
incredible. He came to see us and was simple and natural, 
and most agreeable, but he had quite lost his personality. 
When I read his writings, many of them, and especially 
the ‘De Profundis,’ which was supposed to dip down into 
his soul, I am conscious of the terrible lack in the depths 
of the man, but I was not conscious of it then in Paris. 
He was a simple, natural, artistic gentleman, and I have 
been glad since, through all the revulsion of feeling against 
him, that I can remember him so. 

I seem to have digressed a long way from Mrs. Burnett, 
but that is because she introduced me to so many interest- 
ing digressions. My young aunt Sarita, as I have said, was 
her most intimate friend, and they were constantly at 
each other’s houses, and she used to call her, Sarita, “Mr. 
F.’s aunt,’ because my cousin Dan, and his young aunt — 
aunt by marriage — were very intimate. There is a book 


130 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


somewhere, with an inscription on the fly-leaf, ‘To Mr. 
F.’s Aunt, from “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s”’ — though the 
‘younger generation might not take great interest in that 
weird character in ‘Little Dorrit,’ called always ‘Mr. F.s’ 
Aunt,’ whose face looked like a doll that a child had 
hammered with the bowl of a spoon, and who made ir- 
relevant remarks, which have lived for the Dickens lovers 
through the years. : 

She wrote ‘That Lass o’ Lowrie’s’ to help put her 
husband through an especial course at the Medical Col- 
lege, and found herself, in consequence, famous and com- 
paratively rich. It was about that time, on the crest of 
her popularity, that she came to Washington, and ‘cap- 
tivated all the world by this wonderful charm. f 

She was brilliant, not so much in her wit or conversation 
as in her grace and enthusiasm, and the childish naiveté 
which people who knew her always felt. She was very 
devoted to her children, the two little boys, Vivian and 
Lionel, whom she dressed in Little Lord Fauntleroy 
costumes, and which immediately became the rage. She 
was very near to them, not perhaps in the practical, every- 
day care of physical things, but in her unbounded sym- 
pathy and spirits, and her childlike joy in their games. As 
she grew older, and used to the admiration with which she 
was surrounded, and also owing to the fact of added 
weight, her personality, at least in public, seemed to undergo 
-achange. She was sometimes vague and absent-minded, 
less spontaneous, and people who did not know her 
wondered what her intimate friends meant when they 
spoke so enthusiastically of her charm. Poor woman! 
She was doubtless bored to death at times, even though 
- she loved it — this constant publicity and indiscriminate 


‘MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNEIT 131 


chi em 
attention from all the world. She had a little quiet way 
of sitting in a big armchair, looking gentle and smiling, 
but saying little, entirely different from the sweet re- 
sponsiveness which she showed in intimate conversa- 
tion. 

Her friend, Miss Brandt, who lived next door, used to 
tell a story, illuminating, not only as to Mrs. Burnett, 
but as to others who possess in any degree the literary or 
artistic temperament. Some cousins who were most 
anxious to meet Mrs. Burnett came over one afternoon to 
see Miss Brandt. They would do anything, wait any 
time, or come back on any occasion for a chance of just a 
glimpse of her. Poor Miss Brandt was terribly worried. 
She knew how bored Mrs. Burnett would be, and made 
every possible excuse, but her friends were insistent. Of 
course they didn’t want to intrude, but they could come on 
any day. 

But presently the scene began to work out as a scene 
sometimes does, as if it were in a play. Miss Brandt’s 
nieces and nephews came piling into the room accompa- 
nied by the little Fauntleroys, grabbed as much cake as 
they were allowed to have, went over and seated them- 
selves in front of the open fire, and in a few minutes the 
front door was heard to open and Miss Brandt knew, 
from the voice and footstep, that Mrs. Burnett was com- 
ing. She came into the room, her coat thrown open, her 
furs, her veil, a little dishevelled in true literary fashion 
— her gloves and her wraps were always apt to be falling 
off. She had been walking and was slightly flushed, but as 
she saw who was there and joined the group, her manner 
became impersonal. 

_ The three guests, who were quite young women, could 


132 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE | 


hardly conceal their enthusiasm. They leaned forward 
and tried to hang upon her words, although her words, or 
even her glances, were few and irrelevant. Her friend, 
Miss Brandt, tried to draw her out, but, as the three guests 
leaned more and more eagerly forward, Mrs. Burnett grew 
more and more absorbed in her inner thoughts, whatever 
they were, and looked more and more patient and in- 
expressive. 

‘Oh, dear,’ said Miss Brandt as she told us about it 
afterwards, ‘I was so cross that I could have cried. I 
felt like shaking Frances as I thought how these three 
would-be admirers would go back to Paris and say that 
Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett was stupid and heavy and 
uninteresting. 

“Then suddenly, the children in front of the fire began 
calling to her, and my littlest niece jumped up, ran over 
to her, and said: 

“Oh, Aunt Frances! Aunt Frances! Tell us a story, 
do tell us a story.” 

‘In a second her face changed. She rose, ahemes her 
gloves and her wrap, and saying, “Oh, excuse me,” in a 
suddenly happy, childlike manner, was led by the child 
back to the group in front of the fire. She sat down upon 
the floor, fortunately with her face turned toward us. 
The children hung upon her, held onto her hands, her 
dress, gazed up into her face, and in a moment she was 
deep in all kinds of elfish, childish talk, telling them “une 
petite histoire,” laughing, petting them, her face, her 
whole figure radiant, absorbed, the expression of humor, 
of fear, of mystery flitting across it, reaching out to them, 
and each expression reflected in the small faces about her. 
She had forgotten her audience; she was a little child, a 


MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 133 


sprite, an elf, in a group of other little elves, seeking ad- 
venture in the world of fancy. 

‘And those three young women went — she even forgot 
to be formal when she rose from the floor to say good-bye 
to them — they went away and in all probability said that 
Frances Hodgson Burnett was the most inspiring creature 
— just the way they knew she would be from her books.’ 

Mrs. Burnett’s Tuesday evenings were interesting 
gatherings, but the thing which I remember best was the 
dance late in the evening, and the good time which we all 
had then. All kinds of interesting literary people were 
there, and all kinds of diplomatic people, but the one out- 
standing person, of whom — having been a most frivolous 
young person at that time — I always think, was General 
‘Hatch, the Indian fighter. He was no longer young, having 
spent the greater part of his life on the frontier, and we 
loved to gather about him and hear his accounts of the 
Indians, of whom, by the way, he thought pretty well. 

He was tall with a splendid figure, perfectly white hair 
and boyish eyes, and we used to love to tell the girls about 
him and then present them to him. They expected to see 
a wild Westerner with long hair and a bowie-knife, and it 
was fun to watch their surprise when they beheld this 
elegant person — one of the handsomest men I have ever 
seen, with the most simple and engaging manners. 

He wanted to learn how to dance, said the Indians had 
forgotten to teach him to dance; so, after the literary 
people and the conventional people had gone away, we 
stood him up in front of the fireplace and showed him the 
most modern and intricate steps, and I remember how 
those two brilliant women — Mrs. Burnett and my aunt 
— used to go off in gales of laughter at his efforts! 


134. MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Every now and then, in after life, I used to meet Mrs. 
Burnett somewhere, and we would always begin just 
where we had left off in those Washington days. 

Long years afterward, in 1925, I think, just a few 
months before her death, I heard that she was at the 
Grosvenor in lower Fifth Avenue. I went in and tele- 
phoned up to know if she would receive me, and the maid : 
came back to the telephone and said, “Mrs. Burnett says 
for Mrs. French to come straight upstairs.’ She came 
hurrying in, wearing a tea-gown. She must have been 
seventy-five at the time, but she might have been any age. 
‘Why think of age?’ she said. ‘I never let the thought of 
age or failure come near me. I just keep going forward in 
my work and in my thoughts.’ All these years she had 
kept intact that sweet childish joyousness which had so 
charmed in her youth, and which all the world had loved 
in her writings. | 

We sat down in the sitting-room where she was making 
Christmas things for her grandchildren, and had a real 
heart-to-heart talk about old times — the distinguished 
people, my brilliant aunt, and especially teaching General 
Hatch to dance. | 

‘I ought to have been a dancer,’ she said, laughing. “I 
did not have much chance of that in my youth. I should 
love to have been an elf and have spent my life dancing 
with elves in the woods.’ 

And how funny the children were — the two little 
Fauntleroys — looking like princes, and acting like imps! 
How they went into the dining-room before a dinner 
party, and knocked the dinner table into a cocked hat, and 
made themselves ill for half the night by eating up the bon- — 
bons and the centre-piece; how on Sundays when they 


MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 135, 


had ice cream, which they had about fifty-two Sundays in 
the year, they met each visitor with a gleeful ‘Ice cream! 
Ice cream! Ice cream to-day!’ Or when company came 
accidentally for luncheon, and they happened to have eggs 
— ‘We had them about five days in the week,’ she said 
plaintively — ‘they wiggled and jumped up and down in 


_ their chairs and whispered to each other, “Eggs! eggs! 


ain’t yer glad?” and gave the impression that we lived 
upon bread and water.’ 

“Why, I haven’t thought of these things for years,’ 
she laughed merrily, ‘and I am sure that no one but you 
and I would remember them.’ 

She had just published ‘The Head of the House of 
Coombe,’ and she told me about it; about the process of 
writing, almost with glee, how they had to publish 
‘Robin’ as a separate book. 

“They had got me started, and I couldn’t possibly stop. 
I must get it all in. They say — some people say — it 1s 
sentimental. Well, what if it is? Life is sentimental, for 
those who have any sentiment in them. They used to 
like sentiment, and they will like it again. This horror 
of sentiment is just a phase; why cater to a passing 
phase?’ 

A few days later, on a Sunday afternoon, she came to the 
studio, where some other people were coming to tea. She 
came early and stayed until the last person had left. She 
sat in a high-backed chair, dressed very handsomely in 
grey, and every one was delighted to go and be presented 
to her. She was not in the least bored or detached that 
day. ‘It’s just like old times,’ she said, ‘to be with old 
friends, and the memories of the people and the things 
which we both have loved.’ 


136 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


The next I heard of her, it was all over. She had gone, 
while still at her best in her writing and in her love of 
humanity, leaving behind her — to all who had in their 
hearts some glint of her vision of life — the eternal joy of 
the child. 


Oi nen Peas Se eS 
—— / 


megan 


CHAPTER IX 
PEARY AND OTHERS ~ 


Tue letters from Judge French to his son Dan go on 
through all those years in Washington. At one time he 
writes, when Dan was having a large marble of the ‘En- 
dymion’ brought back from Italy, ‘I suppose I could ar- 
range to have it classified as an antique, but I don’t like to 
interfere with laws which have been for so long a time a 
part of the Constitution.’ 

When Dan first came back from Italy, he had received 
an order for some work for the St. Louis Custom House, 
and I remember his working upon it in his studio there in 
Washington. There must have been some comment — 
every one who has lived in Washington knows that there 
is always comment — about his having worked for the 
Government while his father was in public life, and in one 
of the letters he says, ‘Bill says the “Gazette” will be 
lurid to-day with disclosures about you and your nude 
female models’ — this greatly to the amusement of the 
family. 

About one girl, who was altogether charming, and whom 
they both admired, he wrote constantly. 

‘I don’t see another like her, and if you have any spunk 
at all — but then she’s enough sight too good for you — 
and, as far as I can see, she has never even kept your 
photograph upon her bureau. And Marton says, as your 
hair grows thin, all the young women will forget you.’ 

At one time, Dan’s friend, B. C. Porter, had painted a 
portrait, a very handsome picture of Miss Howe, which 


138 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


with French’s portrait, by the same artist, and half a dozen 
others, was sent to Washington, and put upon exhibition 
at the Corcoran Gallery. 

Judge French was greatly interested in these, as he was 
in all of Porter’s pictures, and one afternoon he sat himself 
down in front of them in the Gallery to enjoy them, and 
almost unconsciously found himself listening to the com- 
ments of the passers-by. The portrait in the middle, of 
Maud Howe, Julia Ward Howe’s daughter, with a large 
picture hat upon her head and a small dog in her arms, was 
greatly admired, and then suddenly he heard a voice say, 
‘Who's the man? I like him.’ | 

There was a turning of leaves, a mumbling of half- 
whispered words, girlish heads evidently close together, 
and then, ‘Why of course, Dan French, the sculptor! I 
know him. And it’s just like him, so soft and peachy.’ 

Over this, Judge French chuckled with pleasure, and 
twitted his son about it for many a year to come. 


Also those early years in Washington are reminiscent of 
interesting people. Mrs. Burnett, of whom I have already 
written, George Kennan, and especially of Peary. 

George Kennan, the Russian traveller and writer, gave 
us all a thrill when he went off to the wilds of Siberia, which 
to us young people might as well have been to the moon. 
His articles in the ‘Century Magazine’ created a furor. We 
knew very little about Russia in those days, but some 
glimmer of the terrible things that were going on there had 
begun to leak out through the nihilists and Tolstoy's writ- 
ings, and the world was beginning to prick up its ears. 

George Kennan, at that time a young journalist, had 
been in Russia some years before, travelling in the suite of 


PEARY AND OTHERS 139 


a native prince. Just at that time some famous Russian 
refugee was lecturing in Boston when Kennan happened to 
be in the audience. He gave a most vivid and impassioned 
arraignment of a despotic government, at which Kennan 
rose, and though I understand he spoke moderately, made 
a defence of the powers that be, or that were at that time, 
in this great and absolute monarchy. He had travelled in 
Russia, and had seen something of Russian life, and he 
could not but feel that these stories had emanated from 
people who had doubtless suffered, but that such horrors 
were sporadic and not the consequence of a government 
policy. This defence of Russia was published everywhere, 
and ultimately reached St. Petersburg. Just about that 
time, it seems, the ‘Century Magazine’ became interested, 
as it was always interested, in subjects pertaining to the 
welfare of mankind. They decided to send some one into 
Siberia to investigate, and the man they asked to go was 
George Kennan. His wife was one of my dear friends, and 
it was a thrilling time when he left us to go off on what 
seemed to us, and what later proved to be, a most hazard- 


ous and dangerous adventure. 


When he reached St. Petersburg and went to the Gov- 
ernment with his credentials, it seemed strange that he 
should have been allowed to travel upon a trip of investi- 
gation, but from his account we gathered later that it was 
simple enough. What their State Department undoubt- 
edly said was: ‘If we don’t let him go, of course every one 
will believe the stories of these escaping nihilists. On the 
other hand, here is a man who has contradicted many of 
these stories; he will only see what we want him to see; 
and it is better to take a chance than to raise too great a 
rumpus before the world.’ 


140 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Accompanied by his friend, Mr. Frost, who was to take 
photographs, Kennan left St. Petersburg in the company 
always of some official of the Government, and it was not 
many days before he became convinced that conditions 
were entirely different from anything he had imagined, 
and that the stories he had felt called upon to refute were 
far from being exaggerated. He used to say that he and 
Frost were so outraged by what they saw that they made 
up their minds then that, if they lived, the world should 
know about it. 

Of course it was an endless thrill to have Mr. Kennan 
come back after weeks of anxious waiting, to the little 
house on Massachusetts Avenue — to hear his accounts 
at first hand. 

He was an interesting personality, tall and slight, wiry, 
with a prominent nose, and deep-set eagle eyes. He seldom 
talked about himself or the things he had done, except 
upon the lecture platform, and sometimes in the quiet of, 
his family. 


It was in reality long before this that I met Peary, but 
dates seem to be a dubious quantity in those early flashes 
of my memory. When he returned to Washington, in 
those years before the great discovery,-he came now and 


then to our house. The first time that I ever saw him, he 


and his friend Burton came one evening to a house where I 
happened to be visiting, Mrs. Caswell’s. I was sitting on 
the floor in front of the bookcase, looking for something, 
when the door opened and these two young men appeared. 
I tried so suddenly and violently to rise to my feet that the 
small bookcase toppled over, the books almost burying me 
beneath them. The two strange young men had to rescue 


a 


PEARY AND OTHERS 141 


me, and ever afterwards joked as to which it could have 
been that had given me such an attack of heart failure at 
sight of him. To say the least, it was a very informal be- 
ginning to a long and close friendship. 

Peary was tall and thin— so thin at that time as to 
look abnormally tall; not very straight, though he after- 
wards filled out and had a fine carriage. His friend Burton 
was a short, active youth, nothing very striking in his ap- 
pearance, but with great charm of mind, manner, and 
personality. I was quite crazy about him, though he went 
off shortly and married a nice young woman friend of 
mine. Still he became only a professor at Tech, he dis- 
covered no poles, took part in no scandals, and so, who 


cared! There would be no possible excuse for writing 


about him. 

Of course Peary was always crazy about discoveries; 
always said that he was going to discover the North Pole. 
And of course we empty-headed young people, his friends, 
paid not the slightest attention to his ideas or ambitions. 
I know this is contrary to what the biographers write 
about him, and it is just possible that he did not talk thus 
seriously to serious-minded people. It is also quite pos- 
sible that our constant joking as to his jaunts about the 
countryside may have brought forth more intimate dis- 
cussion than would have been likely elsewhere. 

One of our great amusements in Washington was to go 
up the Potomac River, to the boathouse, and take little 
moonlight trips upon the water. I remember that Peary 
always wanted to explore. My ambition was to wear good 
clothes, dance at the boathouse, and splash about in the 
vicinity of the other boats full of young people, the more 
noise the better. But Peary always wanted to go up the 


142 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


river where it was quiet and peaceful and romantic, to 
climb all the hills, either in the daylight or at night — look- 
ing for the North Pole, to be sure — and deriding me for 
wearing high-heeled shoes and for wanting to sit down and 
rest in every comfortable spot. 

I remember, when I came home one day, my mother 
said: ‘Bert Peary has been here, and he is really going to 
look for the North Pole. The money has been raised and 
he is going to start [I have forgotten the date] — most in- 
teresting! And he is coming to tell you all about it.’ When 
he arrived, my friend Mary L and I received him with 
gales of laughter, and he was so nice and manly about it! 
His eyes twinkled and he treated us like amusing children. 

He had very definite and clearly worked-out plans, so 
my brothers said, and sometimes, when he told us about 
them, we were briefly interested, but I think this was later. 
His idea was to go year after year, if necessary, live among 
the Esquimaux, get acquainted with them, learn to adapt 
himself to the frozen North, to the food, to the life gen- 
erally, so that in time there would be no hardships, and 
each trip should take him, without great effort or fatigue, 
nearer and nearer to the goal. He was to wear the lightest 
kind of underclothing. At that time his ideas were experi- 
mental, but he was very sure of that. 

‘Of course if I could,’ he used to say, ‘I would go it alone. 
The man who is absolutely free is the man who is without 
impediments, free from discussions, from entanglements, 
from social complications. If I could be half Esquimau and 
half American, I should go entirely by myself. Of course 
in the Arctic this is not possible, but my idea is to follow it 
as nearly as I possibly can, to depend upon myself.’ This 
in some small way explains the fact that at the last moment 


PEARY AND OTHERS 143 


some people thought he should have shared his glory with 

Bartlett. Peary was not ungenerous, but he was absolutely 
one-ideaed. It had been his dream, not only as sentiment, 
but as expediency, to arrive at the Pole alone. 

When the time came for him to go, we tried to cheer him 
by recounting the discomforts awaiting him. 

“Not at all,’ he said. “When you girls are sweltering 
down here in Washington, I shall be reposing comfortably 
on an iceberg, not even fanning myself.’ 

I saw him often after that. I went with him sometimes 
to Army and Navy Germans, and at one time he filled us 
all with envy by the marvellous sable lining of his military 
coat. We made a great fuss about it, and, though he would 
not give it to me as I urged him to do, he promised faith- 
fully that he would bring me one on his return from his 
next trip. However, he married in the interval, and I sup- 
pose his wife would not allow him to keep his promise! 

And then the news came, many years afterward, that 
the Pole had been discovered, and all the controversy 
about Peary and Cook. It was a tragedy, that, no matter 
how few believed it, for it took away the glamour of his 
coming home; the work, the vision of a lifetime, and then, 
at the last inspiring moment, to have to stop and defend 
and explain. 

There was one little incident in connection with my 
friendship with Peary that was really a tragedy in my life, 
although my brothers were unkind enough to consider it a 
joke. He had said, laughing, years before, ‘I’ll send you a 
Christmas card from the North Pole.” And ‘sure enough, 
one winter before his great discovery, somewhere in the 
region of Christmas, came a Christmas card which was a 
work of art. There were two sheets of rather small writing- 


144 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR'S WIFE 


paper fastened together with a white thread, and on the 
pages of this pamphlet were pictures in black and white, 
and here and there a little color, of seals, and musk ox, and 
icebergs. The last page is the only one I remember, and 
that I can mentally see quite clearly. 

In the upper right-hand corner was an iceberg, or moun- 
tain, and fields of broken ice; in the lower left-hand corner 
was an ice-field, and, reposing upon the edge, a baby seal. 
He was such a cunning little seal that I have always re- 
membered him. Midway, and spread out upon the paper, 
were little flecks of dried seaweed, glued, one or two of 
them, into place. Across the top was ‘Merry Christmas,’ 
and at the bottom, ‘R. E. Peary.’ 

It was very amusing and interesting, but I was not yet 
sufficiently appreciative of discoveries, and of North Poles, 
to take it seriously. The little brochure lay around the 
house with other Christmas cards, and every now and then, 
in after years, my mother used to say to me, ‘You must put 
that card in a scrapbook and save it.’ | 

Years afterward, after the discovery of the Pole, when I 
went back to Washington, I began a methodical search of 
the house, but it had disappeared. Very likely it is now 
ornamenting the mirror or the centre-table of some of our — 
acquisitive colored dependents, but it had at least disap-_ 
peared from all knowledge of the family. The brothers 
considered it a great joke that, after all these years, I 
should have been so distressed at not being able to find this 
neglected souvenir. | 

A witty friend of ours, Mrs. Frederic Crowninshield, and 
a teller of good tales, was challenged once by my husband. 

‘Why, it almost seems,’ he said, ‘as if your imagination | 
must have run away with you.’ 


PEARY AND OTHERS 145 


Mrs. Crowninshield meditated for a moment, a twinkle 
in her eyes. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ve always cal’lated, as we 
say in New England, that a story should leave me a little 
better than it came to me.’ 

I feel almost, as I write about this postal from the North 
Pole, as if the details might be challenged, but when I re- 
call that my three brothers would corroborate it, one of 
them probably with amusement, I feel sure of my ground. 


There were four houses upon Capitol Hill at that time 
which belonged to the French family. There was land at- 
tached to each of them, in my father’s case a whole city 
block, which would have made us multi-millionaires but 
for the avaricious greed of one old man, who owned much 
more property than we did. His name was Green, and, 
when the British Embassy first came to Washington, they 
went about upon Capitol Hill, looking for a place to build. 
We were all thrilled at the possibility of that being made 
the fashionable end of town, but old Green, who owned the 
block next to my uncle’s house, put such a large price upon 
it that the careful Britishers left him in the lurch, and, 
before we knew what was happening, had bought a piece of 
land at the other end of the town, ’way out upon Con- 
necticut Avenue. This, alas! turned the tide of fashion. 

As I look back upon our life there at that time, I should 
not have thought of Washington as being literary or artis- 
tic, and yet there must have been much of interest, much 
more of an atmosphere than could ever have existed in a 
larger city, and of course I was always in touch with Con- 
cord, and with my sculptor cousin, who came to Washing- 
ton constantly on visits and injected a new art interest into 
our lives — especially into mine. © 


146 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


He had decided to settle in Concord, with a studio in 
Boston, in which he worked for a good many years, and it 
was here that he formed a friendship with Benjamin C. 
Porter, the young and handsome painter who was just 
starting out upon his distinguished career of beautiful 
portraits of beautiful women. This was a friendship which 
lasted until Mr. Porter’s death, some twenty years later. 


More formal social life in Washington I came in touch 
with, rather at the edges: the New Year’s calling, the 
Inaugural Balls, the Presidential Reception, the official 
gatherings, which were always ‘crushes.’ We stayed at 
home on New Year’s Day, the young girls and the older 
women collecting in groups at each other’s houses, waiting, 
some of them even peeping out of the windows, for the 
first glimpse of the first caller, and counting eagerly all 
through the day — fifty, sixty, one hundred, one hundred 
and twenty-five — so as to brag about it in the evening 
when we gathered somewhere to finish up with a dance. 

Especially attractive were the receptions at the house of 
my aunt, because the room was pretty and the different 
people who collected there to receive drew a great many 
beaux of all ages and all walks of life. At the back of the 
room was a large table with a great and elaborately 
frosted fruit cake; at the other end a large bowl of eggnog. 
There were other things to eat, but the fruit cake and the 
eggnog were a necessity. The calling began as early as 
eleven o’clock in the morning, and one of our amusements 
was to watch the first hacks as they arrived, struggling 
up to the sidewalk, often through piled-up snow, and the 
young men, descending in their dress coats and top hats, 
so early in the day. Nobody in Washington had much 


PEARY AND OTHERS 147 


money in those days, except officials or foreign ministers, 
and usually the young men clubbed together and hired a 
hack for the day, in many cases continuing through the 
evening. 

To the great receptions at the White House we young 
people loved to go, partly because we saw a good many 
friends, but largely because of the variety of people, for- 
eigners in gorgeous regalia — at least gorgeous for America; 
beautiful women with beautiful jewels; and all kinds of 
queer people in still queerer clothes. In the formation of 
the procession which led up to the President, I do not know 
what happened outside the front door, but just inside you 
fitted yourself into a huge serpentine line which edged 
slowly along, then turned to the right, moved close to the 
wall over towards the first door, through a small room, 
across the side hall, then, turning back upon itself, through 
room after room to the small blue parlor where stood the 
Presidential party. A slow and wearing journey! We 
young people loved it, but why older people, who had 
many interests in their lives, should have been willing to 
be flattened out into pancakes, I do not understand. 

Especially one evening do I remember the passage 
through the great room of Mrs. Kate Chase Sprague, who 
was, I suppose, more of a professional beauty than had at 
that time ever been seen in America, with a beauty and a 
regal carriage which we called ‘queenly,’ but which no real 
queen ever has — unless it be our own Queen of Roumania. 
She would have been famous even without her beauty, for 
the position of her father, Justice Chase, Chief Justice of 
the Supreme Court, was at that time the most dignified 
position in the Capital. She was tall and slim — the uni- 
versal art of being slim had not been discovered in those 


148 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE — 


days — with an unusually long white neck, and a slow and ~ 
deliberate way of turning it when she glanced about her. 
Wherever she appeared, people dropped back in order to 
watch her. It was said that when she walked abroad in a 
small town of Switzerland or France, where she sometimes 
spent her summers, the people ran out of their cottages to 
admire her. In Washington she was always the first lady 
of the land. 

There is a story that, when one of the Presidents took 
his seat, his wife decided upon Thursday, if I remember 
aright, for the reception day at the White House. As soon 
as some of their friends heard of their choice, they hurried 
to her and told her that they were afraid that she had made 
a mistake, that that was the day that Mrs. Sprague and 
the Chief Justice had had as their day at home for years. 

‘Why, my dear,’ one of the visitors said, ‘I’m afraid you 
don’t understand. All the diplomats, all the great men of 
Washington go there. Sometimes even the President ——.__ 
Why, nobody will come.’ t 

And the lady of the Executive Mansion, on the eve of her 
social career, changed the day of the White House recep- 
tion because, if her day clashed with the day of the Chief 
Justice and Mrs. Sprague, nobody would come. | 

Later, when I came to see her and to know more about 
her, it was at the time when Conkling was very devoted to 
her. He was Senator from New York, and one of the bril- — 
liant men of the country. I remember, suddenly, out of a 
clear sky, as it seemed to us young people, there was a 
scandal. The papers came out one morning in big head- 
lines that Sprague had come home one evening, drunk, had 


found Conkling there, and had kicked him out. He had | 


certainly taken a long time to discover him! The papers — 


KATE CHASE SPRAGUE 


PEARY AND OTHERS 149 


were full of it, everybody talked about it in the street cars 
and on corners. It was a terrible tragedy, and, even though 
her friends stood by her, it was the end of Mrs. Sprague’s 
social career. 

Roscoe Conkling was a picturesque figure, in a way, 

handsome, dashing, always in the public eye, with a long 
nose and the famous little curl in the middle of his fore- 
head. He looked like a handsome, rather fascinating satyr. 
His political enemies called him a poseur, and I remember 
one little incident which certainly seemed to carry out this 
criticism; but if he were a poseur, he got away with it. I 
was in the gallery of the Senate with my young aunt, who 
was one of his admirers. Every one was watching him, 
hanging on his words. There was a recess, as there some- 
times was in the middle of things, and Conkling, big, hand- 
some, flushed with success, dropped into his chair for a few 
moments’ rest. 
_ With only a sign to me, my aunt suddenly left me, I 
wondering what was going to happen. In a few moments 
she came back and sat down, and together we watched one 
of the messengers enter the floor below and cross over to 
the desk of the man who had just been interrupted in his 
speech. In his hand was a long box, which he handed to 
Senator Conkling and which he in turn carefully opened. 
It was filled with long-stemmed pink roses. Conkling took 
- out a rose, held it up, smelled it, touched it lightly to his 
lips, turned to the gallery, and nodded his head and the 
rose in our direction. I knew, of course, now, why my aunt 
had left the gallery. 

In a few moments, another messenger boy appeared at 
the door of the gallery, came down the steps, and handed a 
note to my aunt. It was not an envelope, nor a sheet of 


1so MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


paper, nor a card. It was simply a piece of white paper, 
torn from a pad. Upon the outside was scribbled in pencil, 
‘Miss Brady.’ She opened it and upon the inside, in a dash- 
ing handwriting, was, also in pencil: 


Roses! And from you! 
In hot haste, 
CoNKLING 


The country was thrown into the wildest confusion by 
the announcement that Garfield had been shot, a quiet, 
dignified gentleman who had probably done as little in 
his life to deserve such an end as any man who ever 
lived. 

Guiteau, the poor simple crank of a ici was for 
months in the jail at the edge of the town, and as our friend, 
Mr. George Caswell, was at that time commissioner of 
something, and had much to do with the jail and that 
neighborhood generally, I happened to hear a great deal 
about him. Guiteau had always been considered harmless 
and had a certain intelligence, but, as is usual with such 
people, an abnormal ego. He apparently lost what little 
mind he had possessed over the idea that he had a griev- 
ance: that Garfield had promised him an office which 
he had failed to give him; that if he was so unfair to him, he 
must be unfair to others, and a menace in so high a place. 
He was only a youth, and many people insisted upon feel- 
ing sorry for him, but there was small need to worry about 
his state of mind, for he was happy enough while in jail. 
George Eliot says, somewhere, that she never has any pity 
for conceited people because they carry their comfort along 
with them, and to Guiteau this most assuredly seemed to — 
apply, as it does to all murderers of his class. He was un- 


PEARY AND OTHERS 161 


doubtedly a moron of a slightly unusual type, quite un- 
conscious of the enormity of what he had done, and making 
the most of a gruesome kind of popularity of which he was 
the subject. People sent him flowers and fruit, wrote him 
sentimental letters, even poems, until Mr. Caswell put a 
Stop to it, which was the only thing which greatly disturbed 
him. 

The first morning after his incarceration, as Mr. Caswell 
strolled down the corridor towards his cell, one of the 
guards warned him, ‘He’ll want to shake hands with you, 
sir. He thinks he’s done something heroic.’ As the cell 
door was thrown open and the commissioner entered, the 
young man arose from his seat and put out his hand. He 
was not at all bad-looking, rather modest as to manner. 
After all, it is hard for a stunted, undeveloped brain to dis- 
_ ¢riminate between a Charlotte Corday and an ordinary 
murderer. 

The Commissioner, having been warned, stood with his 
hands behind his back, but later at various times he talked 
with the young murderer — the same old story, intelligent 
enough upon other subjects, one of those poor cranks who 
should have been shut up before a crime, instead of being 
hanged afterwards. 


The night that Mrs. Cleveland was married, I remember 
well. There had been endless discussion, of course, before 
this marriage: the fact that she was so much younger than 
her distinguished husband, so unknown and so beautiful, 
but largely as to the propriety of the wedding being held at 
the White House. Some thought it undignified, but all 
were interested, agitated, thrilled at the prospect of this 
beautiful young creature who was to spring suddenly from 


162 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


the quiet of a mid-western city into the limelight of the 
‘First Lady of the Land.’ 

We were seated upon the lawn of our house upon Capitol 
Hill, the same ugly square house with the bay window 
where my mother, to go back to an earlier chapter, had for — 
so many years been occupied in ‘raising her own rats and — 
cockroaches,’ when, about eleven o’clock in the evening, we 
saw Mr. John Philip Sousa coming down the street. He 
was in his showy dress uniform, as the leader of the Marine 
Band, and we were expecting him to come in and tell us 
about the wedding, for he was a Bae ints and a school 
friend of my brothers’. 

When he arrived abreast of us upon the street, he 
stopped and, scorning the long walk to the gate at the 
corner, threw one leg over the low iron fence, and, white 
trousers, gold braid, and all, vaulted over upon the grass, 
and hurried across the lawn to where we awaited him. 

‘ She’s all right,’ he said, and, as some one threw a coat on 
the ground, he sat down and proceeded to tell us about the 
wedding; though it is rather a jumble, I must admit, what 
he told us that night, and what other people told us after- 
ward. 

Of course I heard, as all the world heard, all kinds of 
stories as to her charm and the things that she did those 
years at the White House. She was so young and pretty 
and gracious and spontaneous that, except with a few of 
the very crabbed, she escaped all criticism. I remember 
once, when she had a school friend visiting her, the 
story was that they found a lot of old bonnets and dresses 
in the attic, and these two girls dressed up in them and pa- 
raded around for the President and his friend — a human 
touch. | 


——— 
te 


PEARY AND OTHERS 153 


Meanwhile the time was going on and my years in 
Washington, which seemed like the first chapter of my life, 
were drawing to a close. 

As to Judge French’s letters, they were still full of humor, 
of devotion to his son’s career, of interest in public life, but 
he realized that he could not stay there forever. ‘I can go 
back,’ he wrote, ‘and settle down with equanimity to my 
asparagus and to art,’ and in 1885 he closed his life in 
Washington and returned, for his last few years, to his old 
house, among his old friends in Concord. 

Three years later, in ’88, my cousin and I were married 
and went to live in New York. 


CHAPTER X : 
NEW YORK SALONS AND SOME CELEBRITIES 


We were married in Washington in July, a terrible time 
and place, to be sure, in which to marry, or to do anything, 
but if one will marry an artist —— | 

A few weeks before the day set for the wedding, which 
was to have been in June, my cousin wrote me, “What 
should you think if I told you that even now at the last 


minute I must change my statue’?— this was the Gal- 


laudet which was to be put up at the Deaf Mute College 
outside of Washington — ‘and I am afraid it will put off 
our wedding for a month.’ 

The rest of the letter was apologetic and contrite, but — 
‘Saint-Gaudens has been in and says that the legs are too 
short. Perhaps I should have known this without any one 


telling me, had I not been diverted by the prospects ofap- 


proaching matrimony. However, when you can pin Saint- 


Gaudens down and get a real criticism from him, it is better 
than anybody’s, and so what can I do except give the 
Doctor an inch or two more of leg, and meanwhile, what 
kind of a lover will you think me anyhow?’ 


Of course I knew well enough that, in sculpture, legs and 


arms and heads were always being cut off and jostled about, 
and there was nothing to do but accept it, so we picked out 


a nice hot day in the hottest city in the world, so to speak, 


and were married, and I went to New York to live. 
Dan French had lived in New York only that last year 


before our marriage, having given up his studios in Con- 
cord and Boston. That first winter he had worked in that — 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES 156 


of his friend, F. E. Elwell, in Eighteenth Street, while his 
new house in West Eleventh Street was being prepared for 
us. This house was most interesting and I loved it, but a 
home in a side street, with all the hustle and hubbub of 
a great city, with no intimate friends and no neighbors, 
seemed somewhat appalling to me after the easy-going life 
of Washington in which I had grown up. My husband 
knew already most of the literary and artistic people who 
afterwards made our lives interesting, but it took a little 
while for me to know who people were, and to get used to 
the hurried, slap-dash methods of a metropolis. 

There were the Gilders, the Saint-Gaudenses, the Will 
Lows, the Dewings, the Kenyon Coxes, the Blashfields, 
William Dean Howells, the Martin Conways, and always 
Mr. French’s old friend, Benjamin C. Porter, though as a 
painter of beautiful women he was led somewhat into the 
gayer walks of life. And at these houses, which were 
thrown open to us, there were all their friends, writers and 
painters from all over the world. 

_ [really think, as I look back upon it, that Mrs. Gilder’s 
house was more nearly a salon than anything it was ever 
my pleasure to know. There were others, but the Gilders 
were the ones I knew best and, I am sure, the most inter- 
esting. 

_ Laurence Hutton’s in West Thirty-Fourth Street was 
the meeting-place of world-famous and interesting people, 
but I knew it only in the later years of its existence, and 
Mrs. Hutton largely after her husband’s death. 

I have heard sometimes the home of Mrs. Paran Stevens 
spoken of as a salon, but never by an artist or a literary 
man. She was a kindly soul, and generous, but certainly 
far from an understanding one either in literature or art. 


oO ee 


166 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Her salons were evening parties where some distinguished 
foreign celebrity was stood up and all kinds of fashionable 
people presented to him. Her sister married our cousin 


George Richardson, of Lowell — of the family who wanted — 


to dress up the little Copley boy in modern clothes; and 


when they were in New York, we always saw them, but I 


never went to Mrs. Stevens’s evenings, though she was 
good enough to invite us and send us messages urging us to 


come. Mr. French cared but little for large social ‘affairs.’ 


I remember a Frenchman saying to me once, with won- 
der in his eyes: ‘I was taken to Mrs. Stevens’s. The people 
who took me called it a “salon,” but — do you mind if I 
speak frankly? — well, it was not in the least like any 
salon that I ever heard of abroad. It was more like a re- 
ception for — Carolus Duran, I think it was — a celebrity 
standing by his hostess, and of fashionably dressed, very 
charming people, being presented to him. A very nice 
party, but with no resemblance to a salon; practically no 
American men of distinction, no artists or literary men, no 
sitting about in groups, no discussions of literature, art, 
politics, or affairs, nothing intime, no brilliant wit; gorge- 
ous gowns, and, to finish with, a banquet!. Who ever heard 
of food at a salon?’ 

‘Why don’t you go to the Gilders’?’ I suggested. 

‘ Ah,’ he said, ‘I have a letter to her from her sister, Mrs. 
Bronson, but she is at present out of town.’ 

Mrs. Bronson’s daughter, Miss Edith Bronson, had 


married the Count Cosimo Rucellai, of Florence, one of the | 


great families of Italy, and she often sent some distin- 
guished foreigner with a letter of introduction to her aunt. 


Mrs. Gilder was a New-Yorker, and her relations and ~ 


lifelong friends were of New York. The Sedgwicks, the — 


Cl a et 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES 157 


Tuckermans, the Frelinghuysens, the Van Rensselaers, the 
Morgans, were all habitués of the house, which gave it a 
cosmopolitan atmosphere, seldom possible in a New York 
salon. o 

I do not know whether the little Frenchman ever reached 
Mrs. Gilder’s, but I wish he might have happened to be 
there on that immortal evening when Paderewski and Duse 
were both of the party. I remember exactly how Madame 


_ Duse looked. She sat upon the sofa in the front parlor, 


erect, her head slightly forward, a simple black evening 
gown, a scarf of lace which she drew somewhat restlessly 
about her shoulders, everything subordinated to the small 
white exquisite face, eager, fragile, with a glint of suffering 
in every flitting glance that swept across it. 

There was never anything formal at the Gilders’ in the 
way of supper, but always an air of hospitality, cold and 
hot drinks upon the sideboard, and sandwiches and light 
refreshments about, for people usually left at eleven or 
twelve o'clock. 

One evening it was Paul Bourget. I remember how he 
looked, and just how he talked, but the conversation was 
in French and I very probably missed much of it. 

Sometimes the rooms were full, American painters, 
sculptors, writers, almost every one in the room a name 
that you knew. Mrs. Gilder had a way of sending hints 
around when there was to be some one of unusual interest. 

I remember the first evening I ever spent there. The 
rooms were full and I was crowded into a corner. Mr. 


George Parsons Lathrop invited me to sit beside him upon 


the edge of a desk while he told me the names of, and re- 
lated bits of gossip as to the people moving about. 
* It was that night that we met the Robert Underwood 


158 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Johnsons, the beginning of a long friendship, and at their 
house we afterward met many of the distinguished people 
of the earth. Mrs. Johnson had a rare personality and a 
flair for bringing brilliant people together and making her 
dinners a success. 

Sometimes there would be possibly only a dozen people, 
and that was the best of all. We would sit in a group in the 
front parlor, or later about an impromptu supper table, 
and listen to some one talk. Sometimes it was Poultney 
Bigelow, who used to tell us about his friendship with the 
German Emperor. Emperors and kings were not so com- 
mon in those days as they are now, and the first-hand ac- 
counts were picturesque. Sometimes it was William Dean 
Howells whose ‘Silas Lapham’ was just then the rage. He 
was a small man, slightly stout, in no sense of distinguished 
appearance, but of great personal charm. I always remem- 
ber how pleased I was, when he sat at my right at dinner in 
-my own house, that he acted as if he really wanted to listen 


to me — I who had always thought of him as far-off and — - 


unapproachable. 

Sometimes it was Kenyon Cox, who, my husband con- 
sidered, spoke and wrote about art with greater authority 
than all the critics put together. Cox was not always 
gracious as to manner. He had a way of rather putting his 
foot in it of which he was quite unconscious, being devoted 
to his friends and of the kindest heart. Once, when a fellow 
artist spoke rudely, just before leaving the room, Cox 
turned to a friend — Chase, I believe — ‘Why should a 
man speak like that?’ he asked. And Chase’s answer was, 
‘For God’s sake, Cox, don’t you know that you always 
speak like that?’ 


Also the story that at the Art Students’ League where he oe 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES 159 


taught, he was sometimes blunt to the verge of rudeness. 
One day, when criticising a young woman’s work, he 
pointed to a certain stroke which seemed especiallv to 
annoy him. 

_ ‘What in hell did you do that for?’ he asked. 

The pretty young miss to whom he had thus spoken 
answered flippantly, ‘None of your damned business!’ 
which so appealed to him that he promptly married her 
and made her a most tender and devoted husband for the 
rest of his days. 

Sometimes in the midst of these most informal talks at 
the Gilders’, Mark Twain ‘held forth’ — which term ap- 
plied to him, for he had a way of half shutting his eyes and 
chanting his story. 

‘There is a sentimental poet in the next room,’ he ex- 
plained, one evening, standing in front of us, ‘and some- 
body presented me to her. I thought I knew her all right 
and so I said with my sweetest smile and in my blandest 
manner, “I am so glad to meet you. I have just been read- 
ing that book of yours. Funny? Why I laughed until I 
almost died!” 

_ *T didn’t know what had happened for a minute or two, 
but I knew well enough that I had said the wrong thing. 
I had been reading some funny poems, and I had laughed 
until I nearly died, but it was the wrong poet. This woman 
was a writer of sentimental, soulful verse. Her chin went 
up in the air, and her nose went up and up and up, until it 
stuck into the back of her head, and I thought I would 
come in here and talk with you for a change.’ 

_ At another time he told us another story which I never 
happened to hear from any one else. 

‘I was going downtown on the Elevated,’ he said, ‘and I 


160 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


noticed a working man in one of the cross-seats facing me 
_ who seemed to be staring me out of countenance. He tried 
not to let me see what he was doing. His glances were at 
first furtive and stolen, but as time went on he grew so in- 
terested that he quite lost all self-control. He leaned for- 
ward, pinned his eyes upon my face, and just stared. Then 
he reached over, clapped his big hand upon my knee, and — 
said eagerly, his simple, kindly face closer and closer to 
mine: 

““You know Mark Twain? You have heard of him? 
You have seen his pictures?” he asked eagerly. 

“Yes,” I admitted, “I have heard of him. I have even 
caught glimpses of him occasionally.” 

‘He continued to stare, pleased at my admission. “I 
thought you would,” he said. “You are a New-Yorker. I 
thought you’d know about him.” 

‘Then he straightened up slightly and watched me for a 
second, leaned forward confidingly, ‘‘Did any one ever tell 
you” — he paused and spoke with conviction — “Did any 
one ever tell you that you are the living image of him?” 

‘I nodded my head, trying to keep my face straight. 

‘“They did?” he cried. ‘“‘They did?” his voice exultant. 
“Other people have noticed it? I knew they must have. 
The minute you came into the car — before you sat down 
— I thought to myself, ‘That man looks like Mark Twain. 
 T’ll be darned if he don’t!’ I have never met the gentleman 

myself,” he confided, “but I have seen pictures of him — 
lots of pictures — in magazines and papers, and I know 
just how he looks. And the minute I saw you I said to my- 
self, ‘That man is the living image of him.’ I wondered if 
anybody ever told you before and I made up my mind I’d 
ask you.’”’ | 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES 161 / 


- I was disappointed that Mr. Clemens did not tell this 
man who he was and give him his picture. I think the man 
deserved it. : 

_ There was one person whom I never remember having 
seen at the Gilders’, and that was Saint-Gaudens. He may 
have been taken there sometimes as men allow themselves 
to be taken by their wives, but I am sure he never went to 
any gatherings of his own accord, though he was the most 
sociable and responsive of men and most entertaining. He 
hated being made a lion. 

If I remember aright, it was out of this group at the 
Gilders’ that there grew up the old Music Club which in 
those early years in New York we were invited to join. It 
was started, I believe, by Mrs. Gilder, Mrs. Pierpont 
Morgan, Mrs. Henry Holt, George Vanderbilt, and those 
two tall beautiful Minturn girls, who would have lent dis- 
tinction to any assembly. It met in the great studio of 
William Chase on West Tenth Street. Chase was a real 

‘Bohemian with his soft tie, his narrow French silk hat, 
looking (as he, of course, wanted to look) as if he had just 
escaped from the Latin Quarter. He had no money to 
speak of, but he was long as to children — I believe there 
were eight — and as to studios. Room after room, as I re- 
member them, full of all kinds of curios that he had picked 
up all over the world. We used to go there once a month in 
the winter to hear great artists play amid congenial sur- 
roundings and among friends. Among others I there heard 

Ysaye, Plangon, and Paderewski. 

One evening Carmencita danced there, but it was not for 
the Music Club, and I did not see it and had to be content 
with what my husband told me of it. Sargent was painting 
her portrait. They said he sat and watched her as if almost 


ee pee re ee ee 
“ = \ 


ime Fe ee OT ee eS ee ee ee ee ye ee, ee 
i bik cutee atti ow i a wa au Bek me ¥ Pl i Sag a 


162 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


in a trance, hypnotized by the motion, grace, abandon, 
which he put into every inch of one of his greatest of por 
traits. 

During those first years the Music Club met in the 
studio, but later, after Chase had given up his rooms, its 
meetings were held in the houses of members whose rooms 
were large enough for entertaining; the Barneys, the Tif- 
fanys, the Vanderbilts, the Morgans, and — at Sherry’ sy 
where it died a natural death. 

There was another salon of an older date which must 
have been, perhaps, the most interesting, but I went there 
only twice, and then in its later days. This was the house 
of Mrs. Botta on West Thirty-Seventh Street. This draw- 
ing-room is said by the biographers to have been probably 
the ‘nearest approach to a French salon’ on this side of the 
water, and I imagine that this was true, even more so than 
in the case of Mrs. Gilder, because it was apparently a 


purely spontaneous coming-together of great minds, poetic _ 
and literary, who assembled in the house of this very clever _ 


woman to talk because they loved to talk. It must have 
been a wonderful gathering, the shining centre of which 
was Poe, and there were numerous others, such as N. P. 
Willis, Horace Greeley, Miss Sedgwick, Grace Greenwood, 
Bayard Taylor, Cassius M. Clay, W. H. Furness, and 
Margaret Fuller. Of course Mrs. Botta was herself a 
poetess, as was Mrs. Whitman, Poe’s unfortunate love; in 
fact, all the poets and poetesses of the time seemed to con- 
eregate there. Mrs. Whitman was her intimate friend, and 
naturally the great tragedy of Poe’s life was very near to 
the hostess. 

At one gathering, a Valentine party, they all wrote 
poems, some of which were later published. Poe died in 


ey ™ ee Se ee Oe ee ae ee ee ee eee ee ee a 
; n , 7 ) oe " ae =" pee rts a. 
, 1 f Sark " 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES 163 


1849, and so these days were much earlier than anything 
of which I knew personally. My Mr. French went there 
with his cousin, Mr. F. O. French, once or twice, I only in 
the later years of Mrs. Botta’s life, and not often enough to 
get very much of the atmosphere of the place. 

It was a large drawing-room on the second floor, full of 
rather stuffy old furniture, and Mrs. Botta was growing to 
be an elderly woman. In fact, it was only a year or two be- 
for her death. The rooms were full of literary and artistic 
people, and I was thrilled at being there even so briefly and 
at so late a date, on what had been sacred ground to the 
literature and poetry of America. 


The Millet house was in West Eighth Street. Frank Mil- 
let had been an early friend of my husband’s. His wife was 
a beautiful woman, and upon the wall of their living-room 
hung a very beautiful portrait of her by Sargent. I remem- 
ber she told me that the artist had painted at least six 
portraits, one over the other, before he had been satisfied 
to let it go. 

Millet himself was one of the most attractive and lova- 
ble men I ever knew— buoyant, full of fun and enthusi- 
asm, but above all, full of humanity. I remember once a 
dinner at Mrs. Poor’s in the great house which Mr. Poor 
and Stanford White had built upon Gramercy Park. I 
said something about feeling sorry for the people in street 
cars, I think it was, and Millet reached over and put his 
hand on mine, and, oblivious of the gorgeous table and the 
women and the jewels, he said, ‘That’s the way I feel, Mrs. 
French. I look around at their poor, overworked, starved 
faces, and I feel so sorry for them — so sorry.’ And you 


knew what he meant. When he looked at them, you knew 


164 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


he was not conscious of their grimy clothes, of their pov- — 


erty, but only that he wanted to help. 

The last time I saw him, the winter of 1911, he had just 
come back from abroad and he and Mr. French were to go 
West that night on the twelve o’clock train. He telephoned 
that he would come to our house first. We had been having 
a little dinner and were all seated in front of the fire in the 
studio at the back of the house. I remember how he sud- 
denly appeared upon the balcony above, his arms full of 
branches, laughing and calling to us, and then he came 
slowly down the curving flight of steps holding his offerings 
aloft. There were branches of green with little tangerines 
in groups, and short sprays with oranges, and he came over 


and seated himself in our midst in front of the fire. He had — 


brought them for us, he said, from the gardens of the 
Academy of Rome. He afterwards confessed, amidst our 
laughter, that they had not grown in exactly that way, and 


that Lily had spent the early part of the evening tying 


them into place, and showed us with glee how skilfully it 
had been done, with white linen thread and narrow green 
ribbons. 

That was the last I ever saw of him. He had come like a 
youth, bearing us offerings from other lands, joyous, child- 
ishly enthusiastic. I shall never forget the picture he made 


coming down the steps, with the bright-colored branches 
held aloft, and after his death one of our guests wrote tell- 


ing us how this vivid memory stayed with him. 
In 1912, when it was time for him again to come home — 
he and my husband were then working upon the State 


Capitol at Madison, Wisconsin — he wrote to Mr. French 


that he might be a little late, that the Titanic was to sail at 
the most convenient date, but he had always made it a rule 


rere 


; 
: 
: 
a 
; 

; 
a 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES 165 


never to sail on a ship’s maiden trip, though he would do 
so, of course, if it were necessary. It was apparently neces- 
sary, and he came, and when the news reached us of the 
sinking of the ship, Mr. French’s first thought was that 
Millet was among the saved; that he had been through so 
much in his life and was so full of ingenuity that if any one 
human being on the ship would be saved, it would be Frank 
Millet. 

And then day after day we did not hear. There were a 
number of people whom we had known, Major Archie 
Butt, Colonel Gracie, Mrs. Astor, Mrs. Appleton, and first 
and always, Millet. We kept looking for news — my hus- 
band was so sure that he would turn up — and then a long 
time afterward we heard the reason — a reason we ought 
to have thought of when we realized the suffering and 
tragedies that were taking place. A woman being carried 
down the side of the ship had seen him standing in the 
steerage, among the poor frightened peasants, trying to 
cheer them, to reassure them, to help them, because he 
could speak their language and make them understand. 

We might have known it! Dear Frank Millet! I could 
feel his hand — after many years — pressing down upon 
mine, oblivious of the laughter, the jewels, the flowers, and 
could hear his voice, usually merry and gay, ‘I feel so sorry 


for them — so — so — sorry!’ 


And then all the others, all the interesting and notable 
people whom we met, although at that time and always I 
was shut off by ill-health from much that-I should have 
otherwise enjoyed. There was Dewing, who looked like 
a big handsome Englishman, and who painted gossamer 
ladies in gowns and shadows of mother-of-pearl; Gilder 


166 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


whose black hair grew long and straight and whom some- — a4 


body described as ‘the man who had been rained on’; Will 
Low, and the dear Blashfields who knew everything out of 
books and about art, and had a way of making you think 
that you knew it yourself. ‘If you want to know a thing,’ 
was the saying, ‘ask Mr. Blashfield, and if he doesn’t know 
it, ask Mrs. Blashfield.” And Herbert Adams, and “Old 
Potter,’ and Hamlin Garland, and Bobby Reid. 


Some one said to me one day, rather taking my breath 


away, ‘Do you really /ike Mr. Potter? You always speak 
of him as “Old Potter” and laugh at him.’ As if any one 
could know Edward Potter and not love him, big and dark 
and solemn, big-hearted and full of fun! We called him 
‘Old Potter’ because he was so serious and because of a 
curious way he had of putting his foot into it; not from any 
real obtuseness, but rather from a certain simplicity of 
mind, no suggestion in the back of his brain, as in most of 
our brains, to mitigate the absorption of whatever hap- 
pened to be in his mind at that particular moment. He 
wandered one day into Saint-Gaudens’s studio, and stood 
staring at the artist’s big Shaw Memorial, and after a while 
wandered out again with practically no remark, and no 
apparent appreciation of his fellow artist’s great work. He 
_undoubtedly assumed that Saint-Gaudens would not be 
interested in his opinions. 

Saint-Gaudens, with his Celtic love for politeness, never 
quite forgave him until once, many years afterwards in 
Cornish, Mr. French rather set Potter on to tell one of his 
funny stories. It was, as he told it, very, very funny, and 
Saint-Gaudens sat down by the roadside and shook with 


laughter. They were friends from that moment as Mr, — 


French knew they would be, 


ee ee 
, 2. 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES 167 


“That sepulchre on wheels,’ Saint-Gaudens would say 
afterwards, bursting into laughter at the thought — ‘That 
sepulchre on wheels, letting out a story like that! Why, it 
is enough to make the Angel Gabriel laugh!” 

Potter was very devoted to animals — horses, dogs, 
and all animals — and made them in clay with the same 
pleasure as he did his more serious work. There was one 
little dog with his head cocked sideways, one ear up and 
the other limp, who looked as if he were laughing. Mr. 
French said one day, ‘How did you know enough to make 
him like that? How did you know how he felt?’ And 
Potter meditated, ‘Well, when I make a dog, I just feel like 
a dog.’ I know Mrs. Burnett said that about her ‘Robin,’ 
but I also knew Potter said it years before. 

His wife and I — she had been a friend of mine before 
they were married, in fact, he had met her at my house — 
used to treasure up the things he said because they were so 
like him and so unlike anybody else. I remember so well 
one day when he came into the room where she was ill in 
bed with some passing ailment. It was in Chicago, and 
our husbands were both working there at the World’s 
Fair. 

He sat down by the bed where she was propped up 
among the pillows. She was pretty and fragile-looking, and 
made rather a pathetic picture. He was very gentle and 


sympathetic in his rather serious way, and half uncon- 


sciously I had an impression of his being big, and kind, and 
tender. After a moment he went back to the affairs of the 
day, to the work at the World’s Fair Grounds, the great 
statue of the ‘Republic’ which my husband was building 
in the Agricultural Building. 

‘The fellows all say,’ said Potter in his deep voice, turn- 


168 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


ing to me, ‘that the head of the “Republic” is going to 
look like you.’ 

I smiled and felt properly complimented, and Potter 
went on immediately. ‘That’s the way it always is’ — as 
if he were propounding a philosophy of life — “men always 
make a statue to look like some woman. I suppose they 
don’t know they are doing it, but if Adams makes a wo- 
man’s head, it looks like Mrs. Adams, and if French makes 
a woman’s head, it looks like you.’ He thought deeply for a 
moment. ‘I suppose if I were to make a woman’ — May 
from the lace of her pillows glanced sideways and smiled 
a happy smile — ‘If I were to make a woman’ — Potter’s 
deep voice rambled on — ‘I suppose — it would look like 
a — horse!’ Horses were his specialty. 

And the fun of it was that he always saw the joke of it 
afterwards as much as any one, though he thought we girls 
exaggerated things and made a lot out of nothing. 

Bobby Reid was big and dark and striking and has grown | 
handsomer in the glimpses that I have cana of him 
through the years. 

And Bitter, who was a sculptor by accident, so he said — 
but that is another story. 

And Chase, who was more French than the Latin Quar- 
ter itself, but he got away with it, and was altogether 
charming. 

Paderewski I never had the pleasure: of knowing, but I 

met him and was introduced to him in many drawing- 
rooms, one of the fifty-seven varieties of admirers. There 
was one little story which I love to recall, as I think it has 
never been in print. 

He was a great friend of the Gilders and an intimate 
of their household. Francesca, the second daughter, was 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES | 169 


about the age of my own child, a cunning old-fashioned 
little girl, gypsy-like and pretty, also, as I remember her, 
especially polite. It was said in the family that Francesca 
was always trying to put people at their ease. At that 
time she and her sister were taking dancing lessons each 
week, learning new steps and showing them to the family; 
Miss Hall, their music teacher, playing for them on such 
occasions. | 

One day, when Mr. Paderewski was there, he said, ‘Well, 
little girls, how is the dancing coming on?’ 

It was coming on well and the little girls loved it. 

“Any new steps— and couldn’t you show them to 
me?’ 

Oh, yes, they could show him, but the trouble was Miss 
Hall wasn’t there to play for them. They couldn’t dance 
without Miss Hall. 

“Well, perhaps I could play for you. How would that 
do?’ 

You can imagine the unconscious condescension in the 
tone of their visitor. 

So the children picked up their skirts and went through 
their steps, and the great musician played for them, and 
when they were through, everybody applauded and they 
sat down again breathless but happy. From his perch upon 
the stool, Paderewski leaned forward and said: 

‘And how did I play, Francesca? I hope I played well 
enough.’ 

Francesca hesitated, her little face slightly troubled. 
‘Oh, yes, Mr. Paderewski.’ She waited 4 moment, and 
then apologetically, ‘You did awfully well. Of course it — 
wasn’t — like — Miss Hall . 

True! It was not like Miss Hall — one — two — dang! 


170 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE — 


— one — two — bang! and fortunately the great musician — 
knew it, and thereby saved his pride. 


There was a story about the great Duse, which Mr. 
Gilder delighted to tell. She sometimes dropped in most 
informally at their house in Clinton Place, for a little 
glimpse of the home life which she loved. 

Some of the family were planning a walk, and it bea 
Sunday afternoon and the nurse’s day out, Mrs. Gilder 
regretted that she could not go with the others; she must 
stay at home and take care of little Francesca, the young- 
est child, at that time about a year old. 

‘Oh, no, not at all.” Madame Duse insisted that there 
was no need for her hostess to give up her exercise. She 
herself was going to stay at home and rest, that was what 
she had come for, and if that little angel in the carriage 
needed anything 

‘What would you do if she cried?’ asked some one. 

‘Do? Why, what would anybody do for a crying baby? 
Why, I’d sing to her,’ said the resourceful Duse. ‘I'd 
shake things at her. Why, I love babies, and I’m terribly 
clever, Helena: I have lots of tricks which you've never 
even heard of — to entertain babies.’ 

She was so insistent, so enthusiastic, that the family 
finally went off and left them, the exquisite Duse standing 
in the doorway, and waving a good-bye, and the little 
black-eyed witch of a baby patting her hands and crowing 
with delight at all the excitement going on about her. 

They took their walk, returned after perhaps an hour, 
paused for a moment in the front hall and listened — for 
any hint of trouble. All was quiet, the experiment had been 
successful, and they entered. In the middle of the floor, in 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES 171 


her carriage, sat the bewitching baby, her hands resting 
placidly upon the coverlet in front of her, her head slightly 
drooping, her lips parted, her eyes fixed with a hypnotic 
stare upon the head of the sofa near her. 

Stretched out upon the sofa, flat upon her back, lay the 
great actress. Her head, also, was drooping slightly to one 
side upon the pillow, her mouth was open, her eyes were 
shut. She was snoring, regularly, sonorously snoring. 

Slowly she opened her eyes. ‘Sh!’ she said. ‘If I stop 
for a second, she’ll cry.’ 

After a moment, she came to herself and laughed. ‘It 
was the only thing that she’d pay the slightest attention 
to,’ she explained. ‘I sang for her; I danced for her; I 
made faces at her; I acted the whole of ‘Paolo and 
Francesca” to her, and she hated it all. But the snoring — 
from the first faint sign — she loved it!’ 

She stood a moment and looked down at the little witch 
of a baby, gazing curiously up ather. “I’ve added a new 
trick to my repertoire,’ she said. 


It was one of the early winters of my life in New York 
when a little incident happened which we of the family 
would have called ‘Dan’s luck.’ 

The Gallaudet statue — whose legs, by the way, had 
pretty nearly wrecked our marriage — was finished, and 
was to be set up at the Deaf Mute College, Kendall Green, 
near Washington. Mr. French had wandered about the 
grounds with Dr. Gallaudet, son of the founder, and had 
picked the place which of all others he wanted. It was in 
front of the chapel and was occupied at the moment by a 
_ big apple tree, rather a handsome tree. 

A little later, Dr. Gallaudet wrote, saying that, alas! 


172 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE _ 


such a row had been raised in his family about the de- 
molishing of the tree; that his daughters claimed that they 
would much rather have the tree than the statue, although 
they were greatly pleased with the latter; that the tree had 
always been there and would last as long as they would. 
The statue could stand anywhere, and they would not hear 
of having the tree cut down. 

This was discouraging; the setting of a statue being 
naturally an important event in our lives, but there seemed 
to be nothing to do. In a few weeks Dr. Gallaudet wrote: 

A curious thing has happened. There was a terrible storm a 
few nights ago, and almost half of your precious tree was blown 
down. I have waited in hopes that my daughters would come to 
their senses and would agree that the remains of the tree should 
be demolished, but, alas! they still cling to the old broken stump. 


They will not hear of it. The trouble is I cannot make them 
understand the importance of the right place for a statue. 


Of course we in the family were righteously indignant 
that our statue should be set aside for a piece of a tree, but — 
Mr. French, with his usual optimism, said, ‘Well, let’s wait 
awhile. Perhaps something will happen.’ And after a few 
more weeks another letter came from Dr. Gallaudet. 

What will you say when I tell you that a miracle has happened? _ 
Behold! Another storm has come and gone, and the other branch 
has been torn away, and even my unreasonable offspring do not 


insist that the bare stump should be left standing. The statue 
can stand where you and I want it, and where it should stand. 


Which some people would have called good luck, but 
which Mr. French always claimed was making the most of 
the good things that happened to you, instead of the bad! 


In the year 1889, our one child was born in Concord, 
Massachusetts, an appropriate place for Dan French’s 


ASIA 
Group on the New York Custom House 


pee J - Eee 


SALONS AND CELEBRITIES 173 


child first to see the light. Growing up, however, in New 
York, as she did, and considering herself a New-Yorker, 
she was always slightly resentful of the fact that she was 
~ not born in this great, noisy, terrible city. When she was a 
few hours old, her father facetiously wrote to my mother, 
in Washington, that his little second cousin Margaret 
(named for her) had arrived. 


CHAPTER XI 
THE WORLD’S FAIR: SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS 


In the fall of 1892 we went to Paris for the winter. It was 
my first trip abroad and in many ways interesting, but it 
could hardly be called a successful trip, for two reasons. 
In the first place, the season — unusual, of course — was 
cold and grey and muddy, and everything disagreeable as 
to weather, which gave me a chill in my bones, from the 
memories of which, at least, I have never quite recovered. 
Also it was the year of the World’s Fair in Chicago, and 
Mr. French, who was to make the great statue of the 
‘Republic’ for the Court of Honor, was, owing to some 
unexpected change of plan, suddenly called back to the 
United States. He came home, a bitter winter passage, 
about the first of the year, and I, having my aunt, my 
child, and my maid with me, stayed in Paris until May. 

Of course there were some interesting memories; among 
others of Bouguereau’s studio, where we used to go often, 
and where was also Miss Jennie Gardner, of Exeter, New 
Hampshire, whom he either married or didn’t marry — I 
have forgotten the details. There was a certain glamour 
about that young woman of Puritan birth, a contemporary 
of my Puritan aunts, living there in the Latin Quarter, and 
doing something that all Paris talked about. 

There was the marriage of Miss Mattie Mitchell to the 
Duc de la Rochefoucauld, Mr. Whitelaw Reid, the Am- 
bassador, giving her away at the church. We filed round 
into the vestry to greet the pretty little bride and the big 
imposing groom, and after the ceremony a very gorgeous 


- THE WORLD’S FAIR 176 


official of some kind stood up in front of the altar, waved 
his hands up and down, and chanted monotonously, ‘Gar- 
dez votre poches, monsieur et madame!’ as if the aristo- 
cracy of France were all pickpockets. 

I met Oscar Wilde several times, who in later years had 
grown fat, and sat next toa royal Prince of Denmark at 
dinner. 

Mr. French had exhibited his group of the ‘Angel of 
Death’ in the Salon, and had been given a medal — the 
first American sculptor, I understand, to be so honored — 
and had taken a dear little studio in an impasse with Fré- 
miet, next door, and Rolshoven and one or two other 
Americans near at hand. 

Mr. William Couper, the sculptor, who had lived abroad, 
chiefly in Florence most of his life, told about meeting a 
friend, one of the Salon jury, on the street in Paris, who 
referred to Mr. French’s work in a most complimentary 
way. 

“Why didn’t you give him a first medal,’ asked mie 

“if you all liked it so much?’ 

His friend watched him a moment as if he were er 
ing the question. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘why didn’t you have 
somebody there to holler for him? It came up, you know, 
and we were all interested immediately, and talked about 
it and admired it, but we had never heard of the man or of 
his work, whether he even made it himself, and so, you see 
— well, you just ought to have had somebody there to 
holler for him.’ Which, of course, we took as a very great 
compliment. It was a new light upon the bestowing of 
honors — to two unsophisticated people from Washington 
and Boston. 

When my child and I came back to America in the 


176 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


spring and went to Chicago, we found Mr. French with a 
tremendous group of other artists working upon the build- 
ings of the World’s Fair. It was an interesting time, with 
so much going on, on a very big scale, every one doing 
something, Millet, MacMonnies, Kenyon Cox, Blashfield, 
and others. Augustus Lukeman, sculptor to-day of the 
‘Stone Mountain Memorial,’ had charge of Mr. French’s 
particular gang. | 

Mr. French was building the great statue of the “Repub- 
lic,’ sixty-five feet high, which was to stand in the Lagoon. 
It was a good deal, it seemed to me, like building the Tower 
of Babel. They made a big square platform a few feet from 
the ground, and upon this, near the edge, a kind of stock- 
ade or fence ten feet high in broad convolutions, covered it 
with a mixture of jute and plaster which gradually devel- 
oped into the great ripples of a not very conventional 
woman’s skirt. 

They built another section and still another, until there 
were these mushroom growths all about the floor of the 
Forestry Building where the work was being done. 

Of course it was a good deal of a job for a mere artist to 
plan this great structure, but I have always said that, if 
Mr. French had not been a sculptor, he would have been an 
inventor; and the work went steadily on until finally the 
first section and then the other sections, one at a time, were 
carried out, planted in the Lagoon, and the head and 
shoulders of the statue settled into place. 

He and Potter were also making some figures for the 
Quadriga, which was to stand upon the Great Arch where 
the Lagoon opened out into the lake, and four groups of — 
bulls and horses and humans, to stand at the entrance of 
the Agricultural Building. 


as 


THE WORLD’S FAIR 177 


One corner of the interior of the building was fenced off 
for this particular work into a rough studio, and there Mr. 
French and Mr. Potter made their horses with the attend- 
ant figures of girls and pages, and here the models came 
and posed for them, some in Greek draperies and some- 
times, I imagine, without draperies, and Mr. French dis- 
covered that the workmen outside were making holes in 
the plaster walls of the studio — pinholes on the inside, 
but large enough on the outside to accommodate a human 
eye, and allow the curious to gaze upon the mysteries of 


- gtudio life! 


I used to go down and watch the work going on and 
shiver to see my only husband climbing around at such 
a height. The men were always tumbling off things, the 
work was rushed, and the workmen were perfectly reckless. 
Ambulances were dashing around the town at all hours of 
the day and night, and we wives, sitting at home, used to 
wonder at each noise clanging by the house which particu- 
lar husband was being brought home, and what particular 
accident had happened to him! 

Colonel Edward Rice, afterwards Military Governor of 
the Philippines, who had been appointed Head of Police, 
and so on, was an old friend of ours, and they had a pleas- 
ant house in the neighborhood. He was considered a great 
disciplinarian, a big fine-looking man with a pleasant 
manner and a kindly smile. His wife was a little woman, 
full of the joy of living, and she always reminded me of a 
pretty little mosquito buzzing around a great Newfound- 
land dog. 

I remember one afternoon when I stopped at her house 
for a moment, and remarked casually that I was going 
up to the Midway. ‘Not alone!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, the 


178 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Colonel would never let you do that!?— and before I 
knew what had happened, a great red police patrol had 
stopped in front of the house, and also before I knew it, 
Mrs. Rice and I were seated in each other’s laps in the 
front seat beside the Colonel, and were darting off to the 
Midway and down the main boulevard, the gong banging 
for all the world like a fire engine. Later we left the wagon 
and went about on foot among the shows. 

All the keepers of all the booths ran out and almost 
prostrated themselves before Colonel Rice. It was a great 
thing to travel with the head of the whole show — the for- 
eigners were obsequious, the Americans tried to corral us. 
Wouldn’t the Colonel and his ladies take just a little walk, 
or a little climb, or a little swing? There seemed to be 
every variety of amusement, some of them quite terrifying: 
Ferris wheels, roller coasters, moving sidewalks, the Colo- 
nel grasping my arm, I being the guest, and little Mrs. Rice 
buzzing along behind, tripping over her skirts, sputtering, 
remonstrating. ‘We’re not going down there, Colonel. I 
always told you I’d never go into that p-l-a-c-e — Mrs. 
French is scared — she is — she is — she says she doesn’t 
want — to — to > But by that time, in true military 
fashion, we had been ushered into some gate or through 
some stockade or over some stile, and the door banged be- 
hind us. 

We went up into the air in swinging cages and wobbled 
downhill over moving runways, but the most terrible thing 
of all was the snow sidewalk — Mrs. Rice behind us, gasp- 
ing and sputtering, ‘Mrs. French is scared, Colonel, she is 
scared. Just look at her.’ And on we went, dashing down 
a long wooden tunnel, lickety-split into the board fence 
ahead, only, just as we reached the fence, we slewed side- 


THE WORLD’S FAIR 179 


ways, dashed down another tunnel, then up a hill, and into 
another fence, almost, and this we had to do twice. 

In front, on the seat beside me, was a man — I don’t 
know what he looked like or anything about him, except 
that he said suddenly, ‘Hold on to me.’ I held on — we 
both held on to each other — and thus we went dashing 
through space, our hands gripping, our teeth chattering, 
around! and around! and around! and when we stopped, I 
never thanked him or looked at him. I had no idea what he 
was like; I never saw him again; in fact, I never saw him at 
all. I only knew that he was something firm and hard to 
hold on to, and, vaguely, that he had kept me from flying 
into space. At any rate, we saw the Midway before other 
people saw it, and the artists at the hotel were envious of 
us when we told them about it. They wouldn’t have been 
had we told them the truth! 

When we first went out in the spring, we boarded, but 
later took a house. Mrs. Potter had a nurse for her chil- 
dren, and I had one for my child, so we pooled our issues, 
and set up a very simple kind of housekeeping, which, for 
a time, made us happy. It was rather nice to have a certain 
privacy and our own well-cooked food, also to have the 
young painters and sculptors coming in to meals. But alas! 
It was not long before a terrible tragedy descended upon 
us. We were overrun, infested, driven out of our homes by 
bedbugs! I know that the ‘B.B.’ is not a subject permis- 
sible in polite conversation, but any subject of overwhelm- 
ing importance, a question of life or of death, becomes 
permissible. Also, I had lived in Washington, where, 
on account of the darkies and the warm climate, they 
were of necessity a subject of discussion. 

There in that suburb of Chicago, owing, it was said, to 


180 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


the wholesale importation of new lumber, they came like 
one of the plagues of Egypt. The furniture in the house 
was infested by them, and we saw them coming out in 
processions from behind the window-frames and mop- 
boards. There was nowhere to go, our husbands were 
obliged to stay there and work, and Mrs. Potter and I de- 
voted our hours, both sleeping and waking, to the pursuit 
of the pests. My little girl would sit up in bed, her hair 
still moist upon her forehead, her cheeks still marked from 
sleep, and point a stubby finger at the wall. 

“There’s one, there’s one!’ she would cry ecstatically. 

“One what?’ 

‘A fi,’ she would exclaim, innocently thinking that we 
spent our lives chasing a perfectly harmless fly which had 
worried its way through the screens. 

Mr. French, having lived in New England all his — 
had never seen one. 

‘Is that a B.B.?’ he cried, evidently disappointed. 
‘That little flat thing — I knew they were red, but I had 
an idea that they were big — like grasshoppers.’ 

As soon as the hotel over on the other side of the town 
was finished, we gave up our house, and joined the artists 
there. 

When the time came for moving, we put our trunks out 
upon the lawn, carried out everything that we owned, 
spread the things on the grass, brushed and beat and shook 
them, and shook ourselves and each other, and then, with- 
out another peep into the house, with our babies and nurses 
and bundles, we went in a procession across the fields to the 
hotel; and our friends, knowing only a small part of the 
truth, welcomed us. For some reason that particular cor- 
ner where dwelt the new hotel was never molested. 


0 AS 


nhs aka 


THE WORLD’S FAIR 181 


All the artists were there, most of them with their wives. 
It was quite an exciting life for any one who cared about 


art — the men working all day at their jobs, painting, 


sculping, decorating, all working against time — World’s 
Fairs are always rushed through — working all day, talk- 
ing art in the evening, filled with enthusiasm; as Richard 
Le Gallienne said, ‘One can never be truly unhappy if one 
has discovered what art is early in life.’ 

We went back the next summer to look at it, the Grand 
Court opening out through columns into the lake, the 
white buildings forming a quadrangle about the lagoon, 
with the ‘Republic’ at one end and MacMonnies’s ‘ Foun- 
tain’ at the other. It was very beautiful, but I am afraid 
it seemed to us rather cold. The men loved to build it, but 
they spent most of their time in the Midway, and the mass 
of the people had not yet discovered, as had the foreigners, 
how to sit around in an enchanted spot, to sip a glass of 
Wine, and enjoy one’s soul and the beauty of the scene. 


Two of those summers, the one before the World’s Fair, 
and the one after, we spent in Cornish, New Hampshire, 
which we loved, but which was too far from New York for 
us to adopt as our home. 

Cornish was, in my day, and of course still is, a com- 
munity rather than a village, a scattering group of houses 
among the New Hampshire hills. There was not even 
what we might call a settlement; occasionally two or three 
houses near together, but most of them like small country 
estates, wide apart. For the mail and for whatever small 
business affairs there were, we drove down long hills, and 
along flat river-banks, and through an old ramshackle 
covered bridge, into the town of Windsor. 


182 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


There is a bird’s-eye view made for the Saint-Gaudens 
Memorial Publication which gives a better idea, roughly, 
of the plan than any description can do. 

_ The places were lovely and unusual — unusual, I think, 
for two reasons. They were built at very small expense, 
and they were the natural outgrowth of the spot in which 
they were built. There was none of the old-fashioned 
method of clearing off a tract of land, cutting down trees, 


filling up ravines, laying out roads between the house and » 


the view. In other words, the taking out of everything that 
naturally grew there and putting in everything that was 
foreign. As a woman once said to me, ‘I hear that your 
husband has decorated your garden with apple trees. Such 
an interesting idea!’ I did not explain to her that the 
garden was put there partly because the apple trees were 
there, and that the sudden dropping off of the land andthe 
little paths into the woods, with a turn here, and a banking _ 
up there — those spots had been waiting to be turned into 
a garden for a hundred years, and just that particular kind 
of garden, and no other! 

I think of the Herbert Adams place, how exquisite it 
was, and yet — those little touches which no one but an 
artist would have thought of perpetrating — a house and 
a barn about sixty feet apart, the narrow ends close to the 
road — a commonplace sight enough almost anywhere in 
New England — but with a high fence connecting the two 
and painted white, a parallelogram of green inside, a hedge 


and a blind wall opposite the fence, a few columns, astone 


floor against the house, and an amphora or a colored relief 
against the white walls of the barn or of the fence — one 
might have been in Italy or anywhere, and bei no effort, — 
no expense, no display. 


SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS 183 


And of course Maxfield Parrish’s place — a little ramb- 
ling farmhouse on a hillside, as I remember it. We wan- 
dered up along a winding pathway, and there, in front of 
the house a few yards away and slightly lower, was the 
oval pool which he has made famous with blue waters and 
peaked Alps, recumbent maidens and youths. 

Charles Platt’s home was a forerunner of the wonderful 
places which he has since developed, a kind of American 
Italy. The Tom Dewing house, low upon the road, with 
its little garden ablaze, as I remember it, with every shade 
of yellow, and upon the hill opposite, the Italian villa 
which Mrs. Johnston, then Miss Annie Lazarus, who now 
lives in a garden in Venice, had built and made beauti- 
ful. 

It was a bare hill with a long winding road that took for- 
ever to climb with one horse, and some one commented: 

“Perfectly lovely when you get there, but why on earth 
did she build on such a terrible hill?’ 

‘Oh,’ remarked somebody else, ‘so that Dewing could 
sit in his garden when he smoked and gaze up at one of the 
hill towns of Italy!’ 

Some of the artists used to say that Saint-Gaudens had 
the only real house in Cornish. It was a brick of the severe 
Colonial type, and had in the earlier days been a tavern. 
When I first saw it, it stood upon a bank, slightly back 
from the road, and you went up a short flight of marble 
steps cut into the bank, and along a short marble walk to 
the simple Colonial front door. 

To be sure, Saint-Gaudens had done everything to it 
that he could think of to make it as little like New England 
as possible. He had put an elaborate fence around the top 
of the bank with Greek heads at regular intervals, and a 


184 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


big and elaborate porch at the front to get that ‘infernal 
Puritan look’ out of it, which offended his Celtic soul. 
This porch, where they ate their meals much of the time, 


looked towards Ascutney, as do most of the houses in 


Cornish, just as in Sicily they look toward Aétna, and in 
Japan towards Fuji-yama. It is a cult. When you go to 
visit their terraces, to eat upon their porches, you find 
yourself facing the sacred mountain. 

When I went to visit the Winston. Churchills, out upon 
the terrace in front of their beautiful ‘old English’ house, 
there sat their small son, hardly more than a baby, patting 
a diminutive pile of sand with a silver spoon, culled from 
the dining-room. 

“What are you doing?’ I asked. 

He was a seraph, but he wasted no time in discussion, 
He went on with his tiny mound in front of him. “Tutney, 


Tutney!’ he admitted casually, without even glancing at 


me. 


It was a great privilege to live, as I lived, for part of two 


summers almost next door to Mr. Saint-Gaudens, to know 
a great man, as a great man ought to be known, in sur- 
roundings of more or less his own choosing. His own 
house, his work, his friends, not among the chatter, even 
the interesting chatter, of the crowd. 


When I hear people glibly remark, ‘Oh, I think lee | 


brities are always stupid to talk to,’ I often want to say, 
‘Do you think you interest them? Do you think he was 
interested in you?’ 


Of course I never said any such thing, but there is a good 


' dealin it. No one is interesting or interested in every sub- 
ject. The bigger the man, the less he likes to be shown off. 


Saint-Gaudens was very fond of people. He had a great — 


SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS 185 


fund of humor. He was most appreciative of other peo- 
ple’s jokes, but he cared little for formal society. He was 
apt to be thinking of something else. 

I always see him, when the rooms filled up, as running 
away. I remember one evening thinking how nice it was to 
find him sitting with other friends at a musicale — this in 
New York, but a little later, as one or two men filed by us 
to the door, Saint-Gaudens rose, apologetically excused 
himself, ‘For a moment,’ and never returned. He spent the 
rest of the evening in the smoking-room with the men. 

And another occasion I remember even more forcibly, 
and always with a smile. It was in Cornish, and Mrs. 
Saint-Gaudens being for some reason detained at home, 
we, the Herbert Adamses, the Frenches, and Saint- 
Gaudenses, went off in his trap over the hills to an even- 
ing party, neighbors and friends, the kind of party he 
thought he liked. 

As he went into the room, he whispered in my ear, ‘Not 

too late,’ which I, of course, promptly forgot. Later, much 
later, in the evening — I remember we had been listening 
to music and watching the tableaux — when, as some one 
else had made a move, I decided that the show being 
mostly over some of our party might like to go. I turned 
to Saint-Gaudens, who was in a way, having driven us 
over, our host. 
, ‘Would you care to leave now?’ I faintly suggested, and 
turned back toward the music. After another moment I 
rose, murmured some other faint suggestion, then, half 
turning back to my seat, I said, ‘Perhaps Mr. Saint- 
Gaudens would like to stay longer.’ 

He rose up from his seat quietly but suddenly, ‘For 
God’s sake, no,’ he said, and started for the door. We fol- 


+86 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


lowed him out and packed ourselves into the trap and as 
we drove off over the hills, Herbert Adams driving, Saint-— 
Gaudens came back to himself and had a good time. 

I think of him there at his own home as a most interest- 
ing personage. He loved a story and he was a great mimic. 
Once when some one complained about the speed — or 
lack of speed — of a neighboring horse, he said, ‘It is just 
what I like. You can think about something else as you 
drive along.’ I, on the contrary, said I liked a horse that 
could go, and perhaps in my enthusiasm enlarged upon the 
subject. I remember how, almost before I had finished my 
sentence, Saint-Gaudens had shown me up to the assembly, 

He crossed his knees and hunched them up in front of 
him, his hands gathered up imaginary reins beneath his 
chin, he slapped a small worsted mat from a near-by work- 
bag upon one side of his head, hooked a cigar into the cor- 
ner of his mouth, and in a moment had me tearing down 


the road like a disreputable jockey. ‘This is the way Mrs. 
French likes to ride when she drives’ — I sitting very still 


and realizing that it did look exactly like the picture which 
I, in my enthusiasm, had conveyed. : 
My little girl of three years had a curious faculty of 
pronouncing each syllable of a word, so distinctly as to 
give an impression of a great vocabulary. She really did 
not know very many words, but she made the most of — 
them, and people used to say, ‘That child speaks as if she 
were grown up.’ This greatly amused Mr. Saint-Gaudens 
and he made up sentences or words just tohear her repeat 
them. The moment he saw her coming down the road he os 
would begin. 


‘Here comes Little Louisiana Purchase, or sometimes _ 


he would stand her in front of his knees and say, ‘Little : 


_’ SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS 187 


Mississippi River,’ and before the words were out of his 
mouth, the child would gasp, ‘Li-tt-le Miss-iss-ip-pi Ri- 
ver.’ She had a curious inflection which put the accent on 
the last syllable. 

‘Great Lar-go Resti-guchy,’ he would say with gusto, 
and the child would rush at it. 

‘Great Lar-go Resti-gou-che,’ she would gasp breath- 
lessly, Saint-Gaudens laughing with delight; and the child 
would come over and stand solemnly in front of me and say, 
‘Mr. Saint-Gau-dens is a nice man, Mamma, isn’t he?’ 
She, too, liked his sympathetic appreciation of her efforts. 

He was very fond of having young men about him, and 
of going about town with them, some people said, ‘whoop- 
ing it up,’ and wondering sometimes that Saint-Gaudens, 
with his superior tastes and great personality, should care 
for some of the things they did. I always felt about Saint- 
Gaudens that there was something of a tendency toward, 
if not morbidness, at least towards introspection, from 
which he wished to escape; that he craved excitement, or 
at least diversion. Louis Saint-Gaudens used to say of 
him, ‘My brother Gus is a very good man. He tries pretty 
hard to be vicious, but he is really a very good man.” 


Those years in New York were also full of interesting 
people and of interesting events in the life of my artist 
husband. There were all kinds of people to meet, some of 
whom we saw a great deal, others only passing glimpses, 
Abbott Thayer, Bitter, Zangwill, Janvier. Evelyn Long- 
man came into our lives about that time by way of 
Chicago, where she had been studying at the Art In- 
stitute, under Mr. W. M. R. French, my brother-in-law, 
who had sent her to us. She was young, and I remember 


188 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


the first day she came to our house. She wore a grey hath i> 
with a curling feather down over her ear which, with the - 


dark eyes beneath, took Mr. French’s eye, quite as much 
as the reputation she had already acquired as to talent. 
He had never had any young woman working in his studio 
and always insisted that he would never have one. He 
said that he should have to spend too much time being 
polite to her, but he did take Miss Longman, who assisted 
him, and later advised him, and became our dear friend for 


life. | 


She used to seize upon me sometimes and say, “Are you — 


sure that I am a real help to him, that he didn’t take me 
just out of kindness? I wouldn’t stay for one minute if 
that were true.’ So I reassured her that he couldn’t live 


without her — artistically. This was what she wanted; | 


although I have always suspected that it was two thirds — 
her eyes! 


~ One of those winters, Mr. French was making the John © 
Boyle O’Reilly for the Back Bay in Boston. It wasalarge 


group, and he had already devoted himself to it for a cou- 
ple of years, but he called me into the studio one day and 
said with a few anxious wrinkles in his forehead: 

‘Mary, I left this group here last spring on purpose so 


that I shouldn’t see it for six months and could come back — : 


to it with a fresh eye, and now what should you think’ — 
he gazed at me with a still more troubled expression — ‘if 
I told you that I was going to pull it to pieces and make it 
over, more like the original sketch? We may not have 


much to eat for a while’ — which was, of course, only a — 
y 


figure of speech — ‘but I know I can better it, and I really 
don’t see what else I can do.’ 


eee 


SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS 189 


So we studied it carefully —I had always liked the 
sketch better myself — and that winter was devoted to 
getting into it something that he felt he had missed in his 
previous year’s work. Of course, all artists do that kind of 
thing, and having an artist both for a husband and cousin, 
I was quite used to the idea. 

When Mr. French made the bronze doors for the Public 


Library in Boston, it was just nine years from the time he 


_ began them until they were finished, and McKim, slightly 


discouraged, used to write to him and say, ‘How long, at 
the rate you have taken for the doors, would it take to 
make two statues for Alabama or’ —or any one of his 
numerous projects? 

About this time, Mr. French had the opportunity and 
pleasure of doing —I have forgotten just how much — 
something towards the completion of the headstone which 
the Alcott family were having made for their famous Aunt 
Louisa. After it was finished, her nephew, Mr. Pratt, one 
of Meg’s sons, in writing Mr. French, wished they could 
show their appreciation of what he had done, and for which, 
of course, he had not been willing to take any remunera- 
tion. 

Mr. French, after thinking it over, wrote back to him 
and said: ‘There is something I would like you to do. My 
child is eight years old, and it would be a great pleasure 
if she could have some memento of Miss Louisa and her 
work. Perhaps you would send her one of the books — for 
instance, “An Old-Fashioned Girl.” ’ Later, to our great 
surprise, and almost — but not quite — to our embarrass- 
ment came a box with twenty-seven volumes of Miss Al- 
cott’s works, beautifully bound in blue and gold, with an 
autographed poem in the first volume. Of course we were 


190 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


all delighted, and Margaret almost overwhelmed at the 
importance of such a present, also possibly slightly em- 
barrassed at the implied literary obligation. 

Still she wrote Mr. Pratt a note, and, as she was rather 
fond of writing notes herself, I thought it well to let her 
write it her own way and send it to him. A few months 
afterwards, Mr. Pratt called at our house in New York, 
and after we had had a talk and had expressed our appre- 
ciation of this unexpected gift, he said, ‘I want to see 
Margaret; tell her I came expressly to see her.’ 

So she came downstairs and stood in front of him. 

‘Margaret,’ he said, ‘I’m so glad you liked the set of 
books we sent you, and you wrote me such a nice letter, but 
I came to see you especially to know what the other two 
presents were that you felt you must conscientiously write 
me about. You said that you like this present better than 
any other you had at Christmas, “except two others,” and 
so I felt I must come and see you and find out what the 
other two presents were.’ 

For a moment Margaret thought over his words, and 
then turned to me and said, ‘Well, you see, Mamma’ — 
just a trifle perplexed — ‘you see, there was my doll! and 
there was my washing set! and ——’ 

“That explains it,’ said Mr. Pratt, perfectly seriously. “I 
can see how, with three such treasures as a set of books and 
a doll and a washing set, it was hard to have a preference.’ 


One of the greatest interests of Mr. French’s artistic life 
was his help in the founding and carrying on of the Ameri- 
can Academy in Rome. This, outside of Charles McKim’s 
profession, was the great passion of his life, and I am sure 
that he carried along by his enthusiasm the other men as- 


SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS 101 


sociated with him, as he did Mr. French. McKim was ab- 
solutely merciless in his enthusiasm, and his co-workers 
were quite carried away by him, and for the time being 
were quite willing to sacrifice themselves. 

I remember Fred Crowninshield used to say, ‘I am so 
mad with McKim! Of course I love McKim — everybody 
loves McKim — but I get so mad with him, the way he’ 
ropes me into things and makes me enthusiastic in spite 
of myself.’ 

A funny little incident happened when Mr. French and 
Mr. Olmsted went down to Panama. President Roosevelt 
sent them as members of the Art Commission, to see what 
they could do about the town of Balboa, which was being 
laid out a few yards from Panama itself. Mr. French took 
our daughter and our niece, Miss Schoonmaker, and, with 
Mr. and Mrs. Olmsted, they had a beautiful trip and a 
good time, flying around with General Gorgas and Colonel 
Gaillard in the blazing sun, and seeing this new and inter- 
esting experiment going on in the tropics. The town of 
Balboa was being just started, and Mr. Olmsted thought 
of some things which probably were a help, for when we 
went there a few years ago, it was growing into a most at- 
tractive town with a definite plan and showing the signs of 
an experienced hand. 

On the way back on the ship — Olmsted having made a 
good many sketches — he and Mr. French made plans and 
got things into shape. One day, having these plans spread 
out upon the floor and the beds of the stateroom, they 
heard a sudden cry of ‘Ship ahoy!’ They looked out the 
porthole, and, not being able to see the ship, ran out on 
deck, as people always do in mid-ocean, at a suggestion of 
any thrill. 


192 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE | 


After a while — a very short while — when they went 
back to work, the stateroom was empty. There was no 
scrap of a blue-print of any kind or description. The 
steward, having discovered them, and ‘recognized’ them 
as waste paper, had thrown them through the porthole into 
the sea! Mr. Olmsted, I have heard, was a pretty cross 
person, but Mr. French used to say afterwards that he 
didn’t mind very much because it saved them so much 
work on the trip, and made it much more enjoyable, and, 
anyhow, he knew Olmsted had all the data in the back of 
his head and could thus work with greater freedom at home. 


In the winter of 1904, Mr. French was appointed a 
Trustee of the Metropolitan Museum, a position which he 
has filled ever since, and which has become one of the 
greatest interests of his life — the association with a hand- 


ful of distinguished men who have given of their best for 


the building up of one of the world’s great museums. 

I remember when he went to take his place at the first 
meeting, a very trifling incident, but one which impressed 
itself upon us. Mr. French, although a prompt person, did 
not realize, not being in the habit of traversing that par- 
ticular route, how long it would take to go from his studio 
in West Eleventh Street to the Museum. When he arrived, 
two minutes late, he found every other man — among the 
busiest in New York — in his place at the table, and it 
took him no very long time to realize the devotion of these 
men to their work. 

I have so often at dinners heard the Metropolitan Mu- 
seum methods criticized, and I always think, although it is 
hopeless to explain, of these little incidents which these 
criticisms bring to my mind. 


SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS 193 


For instance, in spite of the fact, or in spite of the mil- 
lions that are constantly left to the Museum, I imagine it 
is not very well known that there 1s almost never any be- 
quest left for the running expenses. These everyday and 
uninteresting expenses are partly supplied by the city gov- 
ernment, but every year the trustees put their hands into 
their pockets and supply the deficit — thousands of dollars 
_— whatever it happens to be. 

I have heard my husband remark that the best answer 
to these criticisms was the Museum itself. Founded within 
the lifetime of people who are still living, some sixty years 
ago, it has grown to be one of the great museums of the 
world, has taken its rank with the foreign museums which 
have been in existence for hundreds and hundreds of years. 

In a little book, written by the wife of the President, 
Mrs. Emily de Forest, are a few paragraphs telling of the 
founding of the Museum. 

In the year 1872, her father, John Taylor Johnston, who 
was one of the most important of these founders, brought 
their work of many years to a focus, and the Museum was 
ready to be opened. The Museum had rented the Dod- 
worth Dancing Academy at 681 Fifth Avenue, near Fifty- 
Fourth Street. The house was peculiarly adapted for their 
purpose; two small rooms at the front, the rest of the lot 
entirely covered by a huge room which had been used for 
dancing. Here all the works of art and treasures had been 
collected, and the first evening reception was to be held on 
February 20, 1872. 

Mrs. Johnston and her daughter Emily drove up to the 
now ready Museum, entered and inspected everything 
which they of course knew by heart, and approved. In one 
of the small rooms, however, at the front, there were two 


194 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


high chests of drawers, or cabinets, standing upon either 
side of the mantel, and, as the ladies studied them care- 
fully, Mr. Johnston, who had been working endlessly for 
the perfection of this momentous occasion, remarked, 
‘Those cabinets look bare. I wish there were something 
tall that we could put upon each of them.’ 

After some discussion, Mrs. Johnston suggested, “I think 
those Capo di Monte vases in our parlor would make them 
look — just right.’ 

They had already loaned everything in their house which 
they could think of, but were still eager to lend more. So 
the two ladies drove home, had the Capo di Monte vases 
brought out — they were seated in a low victoria with Old 
John upon the box— the vases were stood respectively 
between the knees of Mrs. Johnston and her daughter, the 
high and fragile covers they held in their laps. Thus they 
were driven very carefully by Old John, and the presum- 
ably artistic Johnston horses, up Fifth Avenue. 

Arrived at their destination, the ladies sat very still in- 
deed while Old John and the one Museum attendant car- 
ried in first the covers and then the great white jars. This 
was about two hours before the reception was to begin. 
The ladies went in, directed their placing upon the cabinets, 
went back to their low seats in the victoria, and I am quite 
sure that Old John, upon the box, drove down to the aris- 
tocratic white marble house on Fifth Avenue and Eighth 
Street, with a conscious pride that the Metropolitan Mu- 
seum was now open. 

I often think of this little story as I stroll through the 


great halls of the full-grown and still growing Museum, its _ ; 
rooms of jades and porcelains, of armor, of Egyptian relics, — 


or the early American wing, of our own American sculptor 


rar 5 


ee a etal 


‘SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS _ 195 


gallery, the crowds — ten thousand sometimes — at the 


public musicales, the fabulous bequests — and I’m thrilled 
with the thought that within the lifetime, indeed within 
the maturity, of one of my friends, these wonders can have 
taken place. 


Mr. French was asked to serve on the Art Commission 
which was called by Roosevelt to consult as to the form- 
ing of a National Art Commission. To tell the tryth, the 
President had no legal authority to appoint such a com- 
mission, but there seemed to be a crying need at that time 
for something definite to be done, which would certainly 
never have been done if he had waited for all the procedure 
of two houses of Congress. There were about sixteen mem- 
bers of this commission who went to Washington. 

On the morning after their arrival, they assembled at 
the White House in the East Room. In a few moments the 
door was thrown open and the President was announced. I 
have heard Mr. French speak often of his entrance: im- 
maculate of dress, perfectly appointed in every way, bril- 
liant as to complexion, and of course as to teeth, with a 
fresh buoyancy of manner that was almost theatric. He 
came over to the group, cordial, responsive, glad to see 
everybody. 

‘How do you do, Millet? Haven’t seen you for years! 
How do you do, Hastings? I was just looking at a picture 
of your library yesterday. How do you do, Mr. French? 
A great pleasure to meet so distinguished a man.’ He made 
each of them feel entirely at ease and at home, as if he were 
the particular person he had long wanted to know. 

He drew a deep breath, and breathed it out slowly. 
‘I’ve just come,’ he explained, with his usual fierce deci- 


{ 105 eR oe 
a, a a =" 


196 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


siveness, ‘from fighting with my enemies.’ He showed his — 


teeth, chewed each word, and flung it out. ‘I have just 
come from fighting with my friends at the other end of the 
Avenue. I don’t always like it much, but I flatter myself’ 
— and he mouthed his words — ‘that they like it less!’ 


They talked over affairs connected with the Commission, _ 


and he showed them, with great interest, various portraits 
and works of art in the different rooms. Later, when he 
was leaving, he said good-bye to everybody and started 
away. At the door he stopped, swung around facing them, 
and said, showing his teeth in the same fierce manner: ‘] 
go to resume — my interrupted occupation — of fighting 
the Jeasts at Ephesus!’ Then he was gone, but I always 
think of him, thus fearless, indomitable, clean-minded, 
loving a fight, the splendid daring of the man! Roosevelt’s 
action led to the appointment by Taft of the regular Art 


Commission which worked for years, and is still making © | 


Washington beautiful and preventing the atrocities which 
would otherwise disfigure it. 

I never saw Mr. Roosevelt but once to talk with him, 
though I have watched him many times. We went in one 
afternoon to Mrs. Douglas Robinson’s to meet Lady 
Gregory, the Irish writer, who was there. My daughter, 
at that time a young girl, happened to be with me in the 
car that afternoon. As we stood at the front door for a 
moment, delayed by some trivial cause which I have for- 
gotten, she said, ‘Look, Mamma, look,’ nodding towards 
the top of the stairs ahead of us, and then in a moment, 
‘It’s Roosevelt, Mamma; it’s Roosevelt.’ 

We waited in the shadow of the front door until he had 
come down and had disappeared into the drawing-room, 
my child, just eighteen, thrilled at meeting, thus inform- 


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-SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS 107 


ally, the President, and the man who was in everybody’s 
thoughts at the time. Later, when he was introduced to 
us by his sister, we all stood in a group and talked — there 
were not more than twenty people in the two rooms — and 
Margaret has never forgotten the responsive, almost eager, 
manner with which he greeted her, and made her feel that 
he was so glad that she had come in, and that he had had 
this chance to talk to her. 

“Where’s French?’ he asked. I explained that Mr. 
French seldom went anywhere after he had finished work 
in the late afternoon, and then I said, laughing, ‘Of course 
he had no idea, Mr. President, that you would be here.’ 

After a moment, Mr. Roosevelt referred to it again. 

‘French ought to have come,’ he said. “You ought to 
have brought him.’ And I explained again that Mr. 
French’s work, climbing on stepladders and handling clay, 
was frequently tiresome. ‘Well,’ he said, laughing, ‘he 
has a good defender, anyhow.’ Suddenly he showed his 
teeth, and spoke in his usual fierce way: ‘Does he know 
that you defend him like that? Does he make you do it? 
My wife wouldn’t defend me. How does he do it? Does he 
beat you?’ I always remember it. He was half laughing 
and yet fierce in his interest. 

Also, of course, I lived through the terrible abuse of 
Roosevelt. As I look back on my life, I feel as if I had al- 
ways been listening to either the abuse or the deification of 
some President or another, or some one great man. At 
one time it was so prevalent, especially among the people 
whom we knew in New York, that it was really trying to 
_ dine at a great many houses. 

Sometimes Mr. French would say to me going home in 
the carriage: ‘Really, it’s almost embarrassing after dinner 


198 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


to sit at the table with a group of men, feeling as they all 
seem to do, bitter, vituperative. I can’t feel as they do, 
and so I just sit still and don’t say much of anything, and 
that kind of makes them mad, too.’ 

One night, at a dinner at Mr. de Forest’s, where there 
were a group of prominent men gathered together to talk 
over the affairs of the Metropolitan Museum — I can’t 
remember just who they were, but probably Mr. Morgan, 
Mr. Henry Walters, Mr. Root, Mr. Choate, and half a 
dozen others — somebody started, as they often did, on 
the subject of Roosevelt. They said everything that it was 
possible to say against him — at least some of them did — 
and almost nobody said anything in his favor, the few men, 
my husband among them, who even at that time admired 
him, keeping quiet rather than raise too much of a free 
fight. 

After a while, one of them spoke up and said, “Well, 


we've got to admit this, we came here on rather important — | 


business, and whether we like Teddy or hate him, we’ve — 
given up three quarters of an hour of our valuable time 
talking about him. It almost seems as if he might be an | 
important person.’ . 
It was only a few years later — less than ten, I should 
think — that a meeting was held at the Century Club — 
something in the nature of a memorial meeting, not a serv- 
ice — but Dan said he had a feeling that he was going 
through a strange experience to sit there and hear these 
men, many of them the same ones who had been so bitter 
against Roosevelt, extolling him to the skies. | 
One evening Mr. French was at an informal gathering 
at Mr. Morgan’s library, where some of the trustees often — 
met. He said that as a group of them stood about the 


SAINT-GAUDENS AND OTHERS _ 1199 


fireplace, some one commented on the very handsome tiger 
skin in front of the fire. 
“Humph,’ said Mr. Morgan, in his abrupt, disgusted 
manner, “people ask me if Roosevelt gave me that rug.’ 
There was silence for a moment, and then Mr. French 
said in a loud whisper, ‘Well, did he?’ And for the moment 
the laugh was turned upon Mr. Morgan, 


CHAPTER XII 
ARTISTS AND MODELS 
In 1897 we bought our place in Stockbridge, about three 


miles out in the country. We had lived in Concord and had 
spent two summers in Cornish, but we wanted to be on 


the direct route to New York with which, in those days, © 


Mr. French felt obliged to keep in touch, both with his own 
work and especially with that of the Metropolitan Mu- 


seum and the Academy in Rome, after his work the two — 


great interests of his life. 

We journeyed through the different towns of the Berk- 
shires — Williamstown, Lenox, Pittsfield, Great Barring- 
ton — and we chose Stockbridge because we loved it 
from the first moment we looked upon it, the long flat 
street, with its old houses and great trees, its atmosphere 
of respectability and culture, and its intimate hills. 

The first time we saw the village — we had arrived late 


the night before — we came out of the hotel, stood under _ 


the old elms, and gazed up the street. It was a long, flat, 
restful street — the quiet old houses, the big trees, and 
such a convenient opening at the far end for the sun to 
set, although I admit that that came to us afterwards. 
We stood still and gazed at it, lost in admiration, just what 
each of us would like, and just what we, each of us, knew 
the other would like, and I said decidedly, ‘I don’t know 
what you're going to do, but I am going to live here.’ 
We did not live on the street, which would have been 


much too public for a studio, but we bought a place about - 


three miles out on a back country road, away from too 


ip hs okie 


ARTISTS AND MODELS 201 


much passing, and fortunately, and by accident, away 
from impending trolleys. It was an old farm with a ramb- 


ling house and beautiful trees, and a view which had 


an air of being especially created for our front porch. 
Years afterwards I was pleased to discover in one of Mat- 
thew Arnold’s letters — I think to Miss Emily Tuckerman 
— a few lines proving that our choice was a good one. 

“I wish I could go with you to the Warner place,’ he 
wrote, ‘and stand where we stood, with my arms upon 
the bars, and gaze upon that beautiful and soul-satisfying 
view.” 

And there we settled down to live for the rest of our 
lives, at least in the summer-time. 
| This was in the early spring. Before we settled daw, 
however, the summer of 1897, we went abroad, making 
among other travels a trip to Greece, a very wonderful 
trip to Greece, about which a volume might be written, 
the first visit of a sculptor to classic lands. However, I 
know enough not to write about the things which great 
writers have described, and about which all the world 
knows more than I do. Far better stick to quaint old 
Washington in the early days and ‘Mamie French’s bank,’ 
on which we lived as children, and the background of 
Presidents, which are only childish memories after all. It 
is at least safer. 

In Athens, Mr. French announced that he had come to 
Greece to study the Parthenon, and that he was going to 
spend his life — for a week or two — upon the Acropolis. 
And so — doing our other sight-seeing around the edges, 
so to speak—each day we drove out, after an early 
luncheon, to the great ruin of a godlike civilization, and 
spent our afternoon there. No one in the way of sight- 


202 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


seers came until four o’clock, so we had the place forat 


least two hours to ourselves, and it has given me ever 
since a feeling of having lived upon the Acropolis. | 

We separated, the two friends who were travelling with 
us, with books, Mr. French with his pad and pencil, and I, 
as usual, wandered away from everybody as far as possible, 
sat down anywhere, and luxuriated in the sensation that 


I was breathing in all this beauty which for centuries had its a 


dominated the world. 
They said afterwards that I had taken a nap upon the 


steps of the Erechtheum, perhaps a sacred, if not a very 7 


comfortable, couch. 
Mr. French wandered about, and ory and dreamed in © 
various spots, and studied the great columns upon the 


ground and the beautiful long lines against the sky, x 


and, incidentally, wrote postals to architects in America, 
especially his dear friend and collaborator Henry Bacon, 


to let them know that they could no longer patronize him — ; 
as to classic lore, that he had been to the fountain-head of 


beauty, and knew something about the subject himself! — 


Mr. Arthur Sherburne Hardy was Minister to Greece = 


at that time, and he and Mrs. Hardy did a great deal to — | 


” make our stay delightful. They took us up on the Acropo- AG 


lis by moonlight, and also we heard “Antigone” in the 


Opera House, with a fine Greek chorus. One little incident 


that amused us was that the actresses, when applauded, 


responded by coming back and repeating a speech, no 


matter how long, as they do in opera, and the audience 


feet. 


showed its approval by throwing bread and money at thetr : : 


_ It was upon this trip that, in Rome, Mr. French was) 
initiated as a member of the Accademia di San Luca. He 


OIGOLS SIaVd SIH NI 


TOAHSIOHD AO SSHHONdG AHL GNV NIGOW 


ssesanisignn sont not penmanmnancatencoasgaammnconenagesonsers 


sae 


ao 


4 
“ 


* ~ 


ARTISTS AND MODELS 203 


had been elected a year or two before on the same day, 
curiously, when was also elected the German Emperor — 
more of an honor at that time than it would be at present. 
When he came home from the initiation, he hurried into 
the room, and said, laughing, ‘I want to be kissed — quick 
— by some girls. I have just been kissed on both cheeks 
by forty men, and I am not used to it.’ 

This story, we were sorry to hear in after years, had 
got about and had very naturally hurt the feelings of those 
kind gentlemen who had welcomed him into their inner 
circle. It was unfortunate, for Mr. French had been 
greatly appreciative of being so cordially admitted to 
their distinguished society, but, upon the spur of the mo- 
ment, could not refrain from his little joke about this, to 
him, unexpected mode of welcome. 

During that same trip we saw something of Rodin in 

Paris. Mr. Edward Robinson and Mr. French were con- 
sulting with him as to some of his works which were to go 
to the Metropolitan Museum, and we met him a number 
of times at his two studios, at Meurdon and in the wonder- 
ful Palace in town, and also lunched with him. 
_ He was as simple as a child, and I remember that my 
daughter and I were flattered because he seemed quite as 
pleased at our liking his work as if our criticism had been 
really valuable. He gave us photographs of himself and 
of the studio, and was eager to write upon the one which 
he sent my niece, Miss Schoonmaker, and to send her 
messages of his regret that she was not well at the moment 
and could not be with us. 


In those years before the war, we saw and met, both at 
‘Chesterwood’ and in New York, many interesting and 


204 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


distinguished people. Although not being very strong my- 
self, and my husband being a worker, our life had seemed 
to us very quiet and busy. Among them were Joseph H. 
Choate, Lord Reading, Edith Wharton, Henry James, 
Zangwill, Hobson, John Burroughs, Paul Manship, and 
all the other American artists who were, of course, our 
friends. I remember one day I remarked to Mr. French 
that I had been to see Mrs. Henry Fairfield Osborn, and 
that she had told me a wonderful story about having a 
dinner, with Peary on her right and Amundsen on her left, 

‘Shouldn’t you think she would have been excited?’ 

‘T should indeed,’ said Mr. French. ‘I should think she 
would have felt like the Equator.’ 


Abbott Thayer’s and my husband’s mutual friend Wil- 
liam Brewster, the ornithologist, spent long weeks at our 
house, almost living in the woods, and educating the 
young people as to the birds and the trees and the flowers. 
He and Mr. French had begun their career in bird-lore as 
little boys together, at that time more attractive than art 
or book-learning of any kind. It had been somewhat of a 
disappointment to Mr. French’s family that their son Dan 
had shown no interest in college, living in the shadow of 
college towns and of learning. He had cared nothing about 
studying of any kind or about anything outside of his 
home except to get away to the outdoor life, to collect 
birds and to stuff them, an art in which his father had 
given the two boys lessons. " 

One night we were sitting on the porch listening to the 
alluring calls of Nature when we heard the hooting of an 
owl upon the hill back of the studio. Mr. Brewster said, 
‘Wait a minute, and we'll call him down.’ He stepped out ' 


= 


ARTISTS AND MODELS 205 


upon the grass, made a horn of his two hands, and ‘Too— 
hoo—too—hoo—too—hoo’ — a noise exactly like the one 


_ that the owl in the treetop had made. There was dead 


silence and Mr. Brewster made the noise again — ‘Too— 
hoo—too—hoo.’ Half down the slope of the hill came the 
response. Again Mr. Brewster called, but this time there 
was no answer — and again and again, but the old fellow 
was wary and not to be fooled. Finally Mr. Brewster 
came back to the listening group and sat down. He seemed 
slightly crestfallen. 

‘I almost never knew it to fail,’ he said. 

And suddenly close to us, right over the garden wall, 
we heard the cry, ‘Too—hoo—too—hoo—too—hoo.’ 
The owl had come down the hill, through the woods, and 
across the garden seeking his mate. He seemed so eager, 
so insistent that I am quite sure if the young people had 
not exclaimed aloud with pleasure, he would have flown in 
and joined us upon the porch. 


Mrs. Wharton had a very beautiful place in Lenox, 
beautiful because she had developed it herself, and what- 
ever she did was perfectly and artistically done. When 
she sent flowers to the flower show, I remember how per- 
fectly each little cluster was tied up and labelled neatly in 
her own handwriting, and when we went to her place, she 
and Mr. French would wander about the grounds, ex- 
changing ideas, she courteous enough to ask his advice, 
but artistic enough to need little from any one. This early 
Georgian house, with its formal terrace, its sunken garden, 
and its rather limited view, like an old tapestry, is one of 
the most complete and exquisite to be found anywhere in 
the Berkshires — an example of what can be done in land- 


4 


206 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


scape gardening by developing every little natural beauty, 
instead of going in with preconceived ideas and trying to 
make it like some other beautiful place to which the lay 
of the land bears no resemblance whatever. Each new 
development in our little place, Mrs. Wharton always 
came to see, and brought her friends to see it — among 
others, Mr. Henry James, whom Mr. French had known 
years before in London. 


Karl Bitter was an Austrian, though he had escaped 
from Austria early in life, preferring to be an artist rather 
than a soldier. He was a handsome man with a sabre scar 
across his cheek from his student days, which gave him a 
romantic look. He told us one day, when we were sit- 
ting upon the side porch, how he happened to be a sculp- 
tor. 

‘I never wanted to be a sculptor. I had never seen a 
piece of clay or noticed a piece of marble, and I was always 
painting in the field, whenever I had a chance, and I had 
always wanted to be a landscape painter. When I was 
still quite young, some one gave me a small sum of money, 
and I decided to go and study painting in the great school 
at the Museum in Vienna. Of course I was greatly scared 
as I approached the building —I had never been inside, 
but had heard of the forms and ceremonies through which 
one had to pass. 

‘I went up the front steps very timidly, and saw the 
major-domo with his grand manner. I don’t really know 
what he wore, but he must have had a high head-dress 
and a baton from the way he affected me. It was a good 
deal like “‘ Jack and the Beanstalk” approaching the ogre’s 
castle. I tried to explain what I wanted, but my voice was 


ARTISTS AND MODELS 207 


weak while his was stentorian. He let me enter, however, 
the great hall with its marble columns — I had never seen 
such a place before — and he went on explaining what I 
should do and what I should say to the Maestro when I 
met him, and he said it gruffly with a mouthful of words. 

‘I tried to stroll up the great staircase, but he pulled me 
back, figuratively, and started me in through a big door- 
way to the left. I went through an empty room simply 
because I was afraid to go back and address his magnifi- 
cence whose eyes I could feel upon my back. I went 
through into another room—a large room — full of 
young people perched upon stools, cross-legged upon 
chairs, all making little clay images from a model upon a 
stand. Some of them were girls and they /ooked at me, and 
when a young man made a sign towards a seat at one side, 
I slunk into it for fear the whole room would turn and look 
at me. 

‘And that fear held me so fast, so long, that I have never 
dared to this day to be anything but a sculptor. I always 
wanted to be a painter, but always the same fears en- 
veloped me. The major-domo in all his magnificence of 
clothes and manner always expected me to turn into the 
room at the left; the only people in the room — always 
modelling — evidently took me for granted.’ 

‘But,’ I said, ‘you grew to love it afterwards,’ and his 
answer was, ‘Well, yes, in a way, but never as I should 
have loved painting,’ and he said it sadly as if he really 
meant it. ‘I never wanted to be a aplee} I always 
wanted to be a landscape painter.’ 


Richmond Hobson I knew only slightly, but he was a 
charming Southerner. It always seemed to me such a 


208 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE _ 


tragedy that the whole country should have gone wild 
about him, and then, suddenly, because American women 


in public places made such fools of themselves, and, be- 


cause he was slightly inexperienced and unable to cope 
with the situation, he failed in keeping them in their place, 
that they should as suddenly turn against him. An in- 
timate friend of his told me that one day he and Hob- 
son were sitting in a hansom, discussing which house of 
several they should go to first. 

‘You will hardly believe me,’ he said, ‘but two women 
came down the street; not young girls, stylishly dressed, 
attractive young women. They stood and looked at us; 
one of them stepped up onto the step of the hansom, 
took hold of the dashboard, and leaned forward. 

‘* Are you Mr. Hobson?” said she, almost breathlessly, 
and before I knew what had happened, the other woman 
had gone around and stepped up on the step on my side — 
the middle of the street side — and, for what reason I 
know not, seemed to be inclined to attack me in the same 
manner. 


‘Moved by a sudden impulse, the impulse of possible 


self-protection, we simultaneously — it must have seemed 
like a scene on the stage — I put my hand under the two 
elbows of my newfound lady friend, while Hobson put his 


two hands under the elbows of the lady nearest him. We — | 


lifted them out, and down as gently as we could, precipi- — 


tated them upon the sidewalk, and in the street, and with 


a signal to the cocher, drove on without a backward look, _ 


to be derided, I suppose, as the most brutal of men.’ 


Mr. Cyrus Dallin, whom we have always known, tells 


a nice little story of those early days of ’77 or 78 when he ~ 


ARTISTS AND MODELS 209 


and Mr. French made models of the ‘Paul Revere.’ It was 


a competition and Dallin won. 

Mr. French never believed greatly in competitions, at 
least in sculpture. He always felt that the best way to get 
a work of art was to pick out an artist in whom you be- 
lieved and to give him a chance to do his best unhampered. 
If he failed, pay another man and give him his chance. 
The expense to a struggling young man—a studio, 
models, the building of elaborate sketches — was to those 
young artists prohibitive, and the disappointment over- 
whelming. Also, because the fact that a man can make a 
good sketch does not necessarily mean that he can carry 
it out. I used to hear Mr. French and Mr. Saint-Gaudens 
discuss it, and the thing that impressed me most was that 
if Mr. French and Mr. Saint-Gaudens never in their 
younger days won a competition — in later life they never 
competed — it was certainly not inevitable that latent 
talent should thus be brought to the front. 

In the case of the Dallin story, Mr. Dallin, who had 
lately come East from Salt Lake City, I believe, and had 
just begun to attract attention with his Indian sculpture, 
said that, though he was, of course, pleased to receive 
the award, he was somewhat overwhelmed by the fact 
that he was not an Easterner, that he knew he would 
be looked upon as an outsider, and that he went down 
to his studio the next morning somewhat discouraged and 
blue. 

The first thing he saw was a small note pushed under 
his door. This he took into his studio and opened. It was 
from Dan French, saying, ‘I congratulate you. Yours 
was by far the best model. I’m glad you won.’ 

This statue, alas! was never carried through, a contin- 


210 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE - 


gency which often arises owing to some slip in raising the 
money, or in the procrastination of some Legislature. 


Of course, all these interesting people whom I remember 
in those years before the war were not all at “Chester- 
wood.’ Many of them we saw at our old house down on 
West Eleventh Street. Though our life was quiet and 
hard-working, many of them strolled into it, so naturally 
that I hardly knew, until I began to think backward, how 
many and how interesting they were — Janvier, like a 
big Frenchman, with loose-fitting clothes and a soft tie 
and a charming breezy manner, who talked of Mistral, 
and carried the aroma of Provence with him; and Zang- 
will, tall and stooping and strange-looking, and thinking 
strange and romantic thoughts. 

We used to have dinners at Christmas in the big studio 
in West Eleventh Street; a big round table with twenty 
or twenty-five people around it, and we made verses and 
wrote poems, most of which we never thought of a few 
hours afterward. But one or two remain, especially those 
of our dear friend Johnny Mitchell, the editor of ‘Life.’ 
I asked his wife one day where they took their Christmas 
dinner, and when she told me they had gone for the last 
two years to Sherry’s, I was very rightly shocked — real 
old dyed-in-the-wool Boston and Salem families to go to 
a banguet upon an occasion like Christmas, when turkey 
and plum-pudding were alone permissible, seemed like a 


sacrilege! After that, they came to us, and Johnny, as ie 


his friends all called him, added greatly to our happiness. 


One of his classic sayings was a line in an impromptu) 


poem in reference to me: | 
‘And Mary, the favorite wife of Dan.’ 


ARTISTS AND MODELS 211 


Another evening he brought a parcel of letters which 
he read aloud. He said that when people heard of this 
dinner to which he was coming, they all wrote to him. 
One of these letters was attacking a very proper Boston 
lady who was present, a dear friend of ours and his. The 
letter was signed ‘Colonel Mann,’ the editor of “Town 
Topics.’ Another letter was from Andrew Carnegie. 

‘T hear,’ the old Scotchman wrote, ‘that you are going 
to dine on Christmas with the Frenches, and that brings 
to my mind a project which has been for years very near 
to my heart. If you think you could, on the night of the 
dinner, raise fifty thousand dollars, I would gladly supply 
the other fifty thousand, and my plan is this: that we shall 
erect, to stand in Central Park, for all future ages, a 
statue, nude, and in gold, of Daniel Chester French, Esq.’ 


Speaking of studios — which have meant so much in my 
life since my marriage, for whenever we moved to a new 
place, my husband always seized upon the nearest old 
barn or shack, before we had a place to eat in, and turned 
it into a workshop — brings me by a natural mental pro- 
cess to the subject of models, more interesting, possibly, to 
people outside than inside the artistic life, because it is 
there shrouded in some sense of mystery, if anything in 
this age ever is shrouded in mystery! 

I have so often heard people say, ‘Gracious! She isn’t 
pretty. I don’t see why an artist wants to work from her!’ 
And on the other hand, I have often heard an artist an- 
swer, ‘Oh, no, not pretty at all.” The model might have 
a very beautiful figure, she might have an unusual length 
of limb, or she might feel the part, might drop into the 
pose of the ‘Spirit of Light” or the ‘Angel of Death,’ in- 


i » oN AAS Oey ih a 
JNA Se: Chee va Pe 
or 


012 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


stead of an attitude that suggested, as Mr. French used to x 


say, a prize-fighter! 


As to posing for the nude, to the layman it always 
- seems a curious situation, but to the girl herself it is quite 


a natural process. A young girl drifts into the studio to * 


make a little money, poses for a portrait in picturesque 
clothes, later in drapery, later still in chiffon — nobody 


notices her, nothing seems to make any difference. Itis 


all in the day’s work. Later, she drops the chiffon, and 
there she is, ‘the altogether.’ Of course the draped models — 


often look down upon their sisters who pose in the nude, and 
some of them make invidious distinctions along other lines. 
‘Oh, I pose only for the nice men,’ I have heard them 


say — ‘Saint-Gaudens, French, Blashfield, etc., etc. 
,or Mr. ——, etc.,’ — names which of — 


Never for Mr. 
course I should not think of mentioning. One pretty girl, 


who had been about in the studios and later wrote some — 


memoirs, gave them to us to read. 


‘There,’ she said to Mr. French, ‘read them and be tes 


thankful that you were good.’ 
I recall a conversation, scraps of which I overheard, 
between two maids in the kitchen. Inga, the Danish girl, 
was very pretty indeed, pink and white and blonde and 


confiding, and judging by the X-ray eye of an artist, as mM 


well as by the subsequent conversation, the possessor of a 


beautiful figure. Tryana was far less alluring, skimpy as 
to hair, and awkward as to figure. 


‘I don’t see,’ she remarked, ‘how a woman can stand up 


in the studio without any clothes on.’ | 

‘Well, I don’t know,’ meditated the pretty girl, ‘I 
shouldn’t think she’d mind so very much. Not if her figure 
was beautiful.’ 


Jepour az10Avy & Jo sasod OMT, 
voissal 


ee ee 
Soe : 
a 
‘ 


ARTISTS AND MODELS 213 


‘I wouldn’t care what my figure looked like —I'd 
rather die.’ 

‘Oh, no, you wouldn’t— not if you were — really 
beautiful — it all depends, you see : 

Perhaps she was right. Our point of view depends so 
much on our feelings, and our feelings so much upon — 
well, possibly our figures! 

The most interesting model whom I knew in those early 
years in New York, and whom I knew most about, was 
Mary R——. She had been a servant, I believe, and had 
taken on only a very superficial polish. The first thing 
that I remember about her was when Mr. French wrote 
— I was away from home: ‘I’m having rather a hard time, 
because Mary shut her false teeth up in a folding bed, and I 
don’t know exactly what to do with the beautiful mouth 
of my angel.’ 

Before our marriage, my husband spent a winter in the 
studio of F. E. Elwell, his own house not being ready for 
him, and that winter Mary R posed for Elwell for a 
big figure. It was then that I grew, more or less on hear- 
say, to be so intimate with her. She was of a very simple 
extraction, but she had posed round so long for men and 
women of the artistic world that she had greatly improved 
as to manner and bearing with, be it said, startling re- 
lapses. She had a greatly admired friend whom the in- 
mates of the studio had never seen, but with whose habits 
and characteristics they were familiar. Mary talked about 
her constantly. This friend was evidently dainty and 
attractive, and it was these qualities that so greatly ap- 
pealed to Mary. 

‘Gracious, I wish you could see her — that Sally Gra- 
ham — she ain’t a bit like me. You'd like her. She's re- 


21, MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


fined, she’s awful refined.’ Then she would sigh, ‘Golly! os 


I wish I could be refined.’ 

One morning she came in and announced that she had 
turned over a new leaf, that they’d got to be careful what 
they said to her, and how they treated her — Elwell, to 
be sure, was sometimes easy-going in his manners. 

- ‘Sally Graham has been talking to me, and I’m going to 
try to be like her. I can if you don’t say things to make me 
forget!’ 

Once or twice during the morning — all this time she 
was seated on the modelling stand entirely free of clothes 


— she would begin to speak, stop, and, without changing 
her pose, remark: ‘Oh, I forgot! I was being refined” 


Later in the day, Elwell, who was bursting with spirits, 
knelt upon the edge of the model-stand, raised one hand 
in her direction, and made some absurdly complimentary 
remark. Mary watched him a moment, her head slightly 
to one side, her eyes half laughing, her lips pursed. 

‘Shut up!’ she said amiably, as if she were being 


tempted. ‘If I wasn’t refined — Id give you a clap side 


the jaw!’ 

Of course Mary, like any other model who posed for 
the ‘altogether,’ had no more consciousness of being naked 
than the rest of us have of wearing clothes. When she 
rested for any length of time, she put a wrap ora bath- 
robe about her, and she dressed and undressed behind a 
screen, for these things were custom. 

- One day, when she came into the studio, she took off 


the big hat which she was wearing, threw it aside, and. 


remarked that that hat was never becoming to her. Later, 
during one of her rests, she stepped down from her stand, 
went over to the lounge, brought back the hat, sat down 


Ne ee 

; vy ES Deel 

. 4 we, 
5 ora 


Se ee ee ee Fe < 


ARTISTS AND MODELS a16 


on the seat which for an hour she had been occupying, and 
proceeded to take off the feathers and rearrange them. 
She sat there, twisting them about, her mouth full of pins, 
her head first upon one side and then upon the other, 
studying her handiwork, and then, seeing that Mr. Elwell 
was busy, she gathered up her work, descended from her 
perch, went over to the long mirror, and stood in front of 
it. 

She took no more notice of her figure than if she had 
been swathed in black from her neck to her toes. It was 
only the hat that interested her. She placed it on her head, 
bent the feathers about, tilted it a little on one side, pulled 
it down a little on the other side, turned herself about — a 
full front view, a half side view, an anxious glance over 
her shoulder at the back of the hat, and stood there, in- 
terested, pleased, admiring, like an Eve who had just 
escaped from a Garden of Eden into a Fifth Avenue 
millinery shop— quite unconscious of Mr. French’s 
amusement in the background. 

Yet this young Eve in the Gainsborough head-dress had 
her standards, higher and truer than those of many con- 
ventional people whom we meet. When the poses were 
long, she wrapped her bathrobe about her beautiful figure. 
If, in an absent-minded moment, the bathrobe slipped, 
she drew it back into place, or perhaps pinned it together 
as carefully and naturally as if she had never heard of the 
‘altogether.’ 
~ On one occasion, when one of the men had been at a 
fashionable dinner party the night before, and referred to 
the fact that one or two of the dresses were horribly low — 
it was the fashion at that time for the decolleté to run down 
in a ‘V’ in the front and liable to escape all bounds or even 


216 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


all waist-bands in the back if the wearer did not mind — 
Mary listened to the account and the accompanying 
laughter with rather surprised eyes. ie | 

‘I didn’t suppose real ladies did that,’ she said; and 
later, ‘I don’t see how they can show off their figures that 
way — just — for the sake of showing them off.’ 

Of course all kinds of funny things happened in the 
studio, both at New York, and ‘Chesterwood.’ One of the 
funniest was in the studio of a friend, who happened to 
have a very affectionate, intelligent little dog, a terrier 
who naturally had the run of the place. 

A young woman, coming one day for the first time to 
pose for the ‘altogether,’ left her wearing apparel behind 
the screen, and took her place upon the model-stand in the 
middle of the floor. Almost immediately the artist noticed 
that the small dog seemed to be greatly interested. Two 


or three times he ran over to the stand, stopped in front of 


it, and stood for a moment lost in admiration of the young 
girl, pretty and white and graceful, her head thrown up, 
her hands outstretched. 

‘He must be,’ the artist commented, ‘a great admirer of 
beauty.’ 

Suddenly the dog darted about the room, pushed things 
about, smelled under the furniture, and seemed in a fury of 
excitement. This he did several times. 

Then he sat a long time in deep, though agitated, med- 
itation. By and by, as if he had arrived at a satisfactory 


canine decision, he suddenly darted away, now and then 


with a backward glance, and disappeared behind the 


screen, the disrobing screen. For a moment they heard 


him scurrying about, busy, perhaps, looking for a bone. 


Suddenly he appeared dragging behind him a heavy black y 


ee 


ARTISTS AND MODELS or 


coat. With his teeth he held it by one sleeve, the long 
article of woman’s wearing apparel spread out like a pro- 
cession behind him. Stopping now and then, he dragged 
it slowly, if eagerly, across the floor, brought it to the edge 
of the model-stand, laid it down, looked up with snapping 
eyes and parted lips, at the young person above him, who 
ought to be cold and neglected — even if she were not — 
and began to bark and jump about, bursting with sym- 
pathy and approval. 


My little girl used to like to go down and watch her 
father at work, and amuse herself with the clay and other 
enticing things which she found lying about. Not being 
an artist at that early age, she was usually sent away if a 
model were coming. This seemed entirely natural to her. 
But one day she came upstairs, her feelings, if not hurt, 
at least troubled. 

She stood and looked at me, and in an injured tone 
said, ‘I couldn’t go — in — the studio.’ 

‘Why not?’ I asked. 

‘I don’t know. Papa said, “‘No, don’t come in.” 

“Was there any one there?’ 

‘Yes,’ her voice growing more and more injured. ‘There 
was a lady there, but — she had her clothes on.’ 


Mr. French was never very good at remembering 
names or, indeed, remembering the people to whom the 
names belonged. It was rather a joke in the family that 
he sometimes forgot the why and the wherefore, even of 
a pretty woman he greatly admired. 

One day his man came into the studio and said there 
was a lady upstairs to see him, so Mr. French ran up the 


# 7, 1 Sty ye a ee 
A Le Ne al Oe a 
, , Te Sy ae =4 


218 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


rather long flight of stairs into the small reception room 
above, where sat a very pretty woman with pink roses in 
her hat. Even when he was interrupted in his work, he 
was nothing if not polite. The woman was pretty and 
young, and looked in a general way familiar. She was 
probably’some friend of mine, or some one who had dined 
with us in a different gown a few nights before, so he 
rushed forward, took her hand, bowed rather effusively, 
and said impressively that he was delighted to see 
her. 

The young woman glanced at him and without a smile 
said, ‘Shall I take my waist off?’ 

And gradually, very gradually, there came over Mr. 
French a faint glimmer of remembrance that Dewing had 
a day or two before written that he had discovered a young 
woman with the most perfect shoulder and arm he had 
ever seen, and that he would send her around some morn- 
ing soon. 


One beautiful day — this was, of course, in the summer 
time at ‘Chesterwood’ — I went out into the garden, and 
saw something that made us all laugh when I recounted 
it at the lunch table — the kind of thing that happens 
often, but only in the abode of an artist. 

There was a young man at that time posing for Mr. 
French, who was an Assyrian, with a peculiar thin dark 
face and rather long hair about his shoulders. Mr. French 
had been amused because this young man had discovered, 
lying about somewhere, the book of the Apocrypha, 
which he had never seen before, and over which he had 
pored with great interest whenever he was free, so that 


the combination which I saw before me was natural 


ae ORO Fei RL ae Crea a r ens ae ne - ate re nae bee, Pe cM ee is 
“ Seo wee he Le Pe 
‘ eee ee ge ge d 


ISTS AND MODELS ae 


re ae in a Ee eorge as blade ee meditating, in 
n Italian garden, eating apples, and studying the lost 


ere ¢ ats >, iat: BY Ost in a ee) 7 a 


CHAPTER .XIII 
CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 


We: settled down, as I have said, in an old Stockbridge 
farmhouse, pretty, but inconvenient, with its lovely view 
from the porch, and its great woods behind, spent a good 
deal of money on it, and finally decided that we must have 
a new house. 

We built a new house, not so much because we wanted 
a new house as because we wanted a new bathroom, that 
is, a bathroom that was really a bathroom, and which 
could be entered in some other way than through the 
parlor or the china closet. In the old house we had put the 
bath in a tiny room on the ground floor, and when we came 
downstairs with our towels and our soap and our tooth- 
brush, the inhabitants of the living-room had to disappear 
while we passed through. I could have no dressing-room 
except a closet; there was no place for the linen, and a dis- 
respectful cousin claimed that he couldn’t sit up in bed at 
night without bumping his head on the ceiling. 

This reminds me of the efforts of my cousin Mrs. E—— 
in trying to take a bath. We all had to double up a good 
deal; my little girl claimed that when she went to bed at 
night she never knew where she was to wake up in the 
morning, for my family insisted on having a house full of 
company whether there was sufficient room or not. My 
cousin Mrs. E—— at that time rooming with my child, 
discovered a very big closet at the back of the room, and 
decided that it was an ideal place for her morning ablu- 
tions. She carried numerous articles for her bath into this 


hae ty 4 Ses oo! fe 
¢  ¢ tye ee 


Aor. F eeu 
‘ ae 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 221 


closet, which was large and airy, with a window looking 
into the woods — her pitcher and basin and slop-pail and 
soap-dish — and, being a very tidy person, a dozen other 
articles which seemed to be necessary. There was a flat- 
topped trunk on which she arranged her basin and toilet 
articles, and proceeded, conscious of a nice cosy privacy 
which any one might be excusable for enjoying in a bath. 
Having plenty of time to think in the intervals of splashing, 
she began to wonder and admire the size and comfort of 
the closet which she had discovered. Why should any one, 
in a house so simple, desire anything more large and 
luxurious than this, with its window looking into the woods, 
and a door which she had just closed into my daughter’s 
room? 

Gradually it came over her that there were a great 
many doors for a dressing-room. There seemed to be closets 
within closets. She went on with her splashing, dressed 
herselt leisurely and properly, and discovered only at the 
breakfast table, when she asked why that closet wasn’t 
made into a real bathroom, that that closet was not a closet 
at all— that it was the back entry! Besides the door 
through which she had entered was one leading downstairs 
into the kitchen, another into the room of the Irish cook, 
and a third into that of a new and fastidious gentleman 
visitor. This little incident, and also the fact that our 
gentlemen guests were so constantly disturbed in their 
reveries before the parlor fire by young ladies in deshabille, 
who begged them not to turn around as they hurried in 
and out of the only bathroom, decided us that we must 
have a different kind of bathroom, even if we had to have 
a new house attached to it. So we built our house. The 
studio had been built the first year of our life on the farm, 


222 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


and by this time was growing into its place in the land- 


scape, the big doors at the back leading out into the small 


formal garden, the walks of the garden leading into the 
winding paths of the woods. I went out there one morning 
— this only a year or two ago — and found them all work- 
ing, my husband naturally, my daughter modelling a 
relief, Mr. Walter Clark with a pretty young girl seated 
upon a stand before him. I wondered aloud whether they 
realized what beautiful surroundings were theirs, compared 
with a plain room in a business block in a great noisy city; 
the victrola was playing softly, the doors were open into 
the little garden, the fountain was tinkling away, the birds 
splashing about its edges, the sun shining, the woods cool 
and fresh in the background, and they called this— work! 


It was during these early years of life at ‘Chesterwood’ 
that Mr. French made the ‘Standing Lincoln’ for Lincoln, 


Nebraska. When it was finished, we gave a tea in its honor, 


and people came, as they always come to see Lincoln any- 
where, from all over the country. It had been built in 
a sort of extra studio, down upon a hillside, where it could 
be rolled out upon a platform, and we could go down below 
and criticize it. And I remember how picturesque it was, 
on a perfectly beautiful afternoon, to see the groups of 
people, women in bright clothes, wandering down across 
the field to see ‘Lincoln’s Shrine,’ as they called it. 

When it was set up in Nebraska, Mr. French and our 
daughter went on for the unveiling, where they met Mr. 
Bryan and were pleased, as people always were, by the 


charm and naiveté of his manner. They brought back with 


them a curious story which he had told about himself, and 
which I have never happened to hear anywhere else. 


ee ee ee ee ee ey, ee er ee 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR ga5 


He said that upon one occasion when he was making a 
very important speech, he was greatly impressed by the 
attention of a man in the audience. The man sat a few 
rows from the front, and, as the speech went on, seemed to 
grow more and more absorbed. He hung upon the speak- 
er’s words, his face fairly twitching with excitement. Mr. 
Bryan said that he felt so flattered that he found himself 
watching his admirer more and more closely, until finally 
he was conscious that he was addressing himself to that 
one man, oblivious of the rest of the audience. It was 
inspiring to have such a listener and he was conscious 
of being unusually eloquent. 

Later in the evening, the man came upon the platform, 
watched his chance, and seized upon the hand of the 
speaker. 

‘I’ve watched you every minute,’ he said breathlessly. 
‘I’ve never taken my eyes off your face.’ 

He was so eager, so impassioned, that Mr. Bryan felt a 
thrill go through him; here was something worth while, and 
the man went on: 

‘I’m a dentist and I’ve never before in my whole pro- 
fessional life seen a speaker who, when he laughed, showed 
both rows of teeth all the way round.’ 

_ There was a curious little incident about the Lincoln 
which artistically appealed to the man who made it. It 
seems that a small model had been sent out to Nebraska, 
not only for the committee to see, but to be placed upon 
exhibition. People were friendly enough to be greatly 
interested in it, and there was more or less discussion. It 
seems that after the small model had arrived, but before 
it was unboxed, some one at the house of Mr. Hall, the 
chairman of the committee, had remarked: ‘My mother 


224 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


was a young girl when she first saw Lincoln, several times, 


travelling and making speeches. She said he had a curious — 


way of standing just before he began to speak, with his 
hands clasped as if he were collecting his thoughts.’ 

And next day when the box was opened, this woman 
was greatly pleased, also greatly surprised, to find the 
statue in just the pose in which her mother had described 
the great man on the eve of his speeches. Lincoln had been 
made to stand — the Gettysburg Speech on a big slab in 
the background — his head a little drooping, his arms 


straight down, his hands clasped, as if he were thinking 


deeply. Mr. French had said at the time that he had ‘kind 
of felt as if he must have stood like that, those few mo- 
ments before his address.’ 


In connection with studio life and the making of statues, 
there is one question — grave to every sculptor — which 


is naturally little understood by the outside world — the 


question of expense. A burning question, this, I admit, to 


all professional people, but I think that the architect and — 


the sculptor are necessarily more hampered by the de- 
mands of their trade, as a trade, than any one else. 

A large room — for architectural sculpture a huge room 
— js an absolute necessity. The clay, the wax, the setting- 


up of statues and busts, the skilled carpentry work, . 


heavy express charges, models, the turning of the clay into 
plaster, and later the turning of plaster, by skilled work- 


men, into bronze or marble — all, unless a man is highly 


paid, eat up a large part of the profits. 

I have known, in Mr. French’s case, that sometimes 
when a statue was put in place, it was found that the 
entire large appropriation — in one case some $50,000 — 


a 
set ae 


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P == aa! ie pe 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 2268 


was entirely used up in the expenses of casting, stonework, 
water for the pool, etc. Except in the case of another ap- 
propriation being made, there would be nothing left for the 
sculptor. 

A young friend of ours, a rather successful artist, once 
said to me: ‘You see I’ve never had a chance to do my 
best with a piece of work. The prices I’ve had to accept 
have been so small that I have had to hurry up and put it 
through, because if I took my time, as a more famous man 
would do, the whole appropriation would be used up, 
sometimes doubled, in the expenses of studio, assistants, 
etc. I not only should have nothing myself, I should be 
in debt.’ 

The attitude of the newly rich toward art is of course 
sometimes amusing, though it has been only occasionally 
that Mr. French has come in contact with it. Our friend 
Mr. C tells a story of bringing to the studio a newly 
rich and supposedly artistic man, who wanted a bust made 
of himself. Mr. French explained that he hardly ever made 
busts nowadays; he felt that his hand was, in this line, out 
of practice, etc. The man persisted, and Mr. French also 
persisted that his time was too taken up for him even to 
consider it at present. 

‘Oh, I think you can get it in,’ said the visitor cheer- 
fully. Then, dropping his voice, ‘You know, I have plenty 
— money is no object to me.’ 

‘Yes,’ responded Mr. French quietly, ‘I too am fortunate 
enough to have a competency — money is no object to 
me.’ 

I doubt whether Mr. French ever said exactly this, but 
the spirit of the conversation is quite true. It is the kind 
of thing that often happens. 


‘926 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE — 


But a story that appealed to me even more was about 
one of the great captains of industry. He wanted a statue 
of a certain kind for a certain place. He commissioned his 
architect to ask Mr. French — not to give the order, but 
to make a model on approval. Mr. French said that he 
should be glad to do so and submit the model, but that he 
charged for his designs, and that the price would be $500. 
Shortly after this, the’architect received a letter from the 
captain of industry saying: ‘What’s the matter with these 
artist fellows? What does French mean by charging for 
a design? Tell him that when I want a job, I go for it! 
Why, I’ve crossed the ocean in search of a job.’ This so — 
amused the architect that he told us about it, and Mr. 
French’s comment was, ‘Tell Mr. R——’ — which was by 
no means his initial — ‘that it’s a great many years since 
I have had to go to Europe, or anywhere, to get a job.’ 

I have often wished that I knew Mr. R——. I've 
thought I should like to tell him that story with explana- 
tions. He is a big man in his way, and I know that he must 
have a sense of humor and would appreciate the idea, if 
his attention were called to it, that he could not approach 
a work of art as he would a leak in the bathroom. 


Of course the War came to us like a bomb here in our 
little garden as it came to all the gardens of the world — 
great and small. 

But I know better than to write much about the War. 
I shall tell only a few little episodes which never could have 
happened but for the terrible struggle through which we 
were living, which cut our lives in half, and made many of 
us feel that we were starting out anew. 


We all worked with the Duryea Relief. My daughter — 


ee eee ee 
a i ‘ " 
RS 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 227 


was secretary, and I worked through several years in 
various positions of no great importance, but of great in- 


‘terest. How we all worked! How we all economized! My 


family still claim that I undermined their constitutions by 
my household economies. How we all gave as if we could 
never again need an heirloom, or a competency for our old 
age, and how cross we all were with those who ate more 
than we did or gave less! Miss Clara Barton, the great Red 
Cross founder, was a friend of my father, and I was often 


‘reminded of something she used to say, ‘You will find that 


the people who give, give and give, and keep on giving, 
and the people who don’t give, don’t give at all.’ 

My daughter also worked under Major Lamond in the 
Debarkation Hospital Number Three, full of tragedies and 
comedies which we cannot forget. 

There was one boy, Ashi, of an Assyrian family, I think, 
but born here, an American — we like to claim all good 
foreigners — whose name among his friends in and out of 
the ward became a household word. He had lost one leg 
at the hip, the other at the knee, and part of one hand. 
He was in bed, and slowly getting well and was the life of 
the ward. 

My daughter went and stood beside him. ‘Now, Ashi,” 
she said, ‘have you written home and told them?’ 

eKes.: 

‘Sure?’ : 

For it was a law in the hospital that the soldiers, if they 
were well enough, should write home about their condition, 
in order to prevent the scenes that were likely to take place 
when the broken-hearted mothers and fathers came for 
them. 

. Oh, yes,’ said Ashi carelessly, “I wrote ’em all right. 


228 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


They seem kind of upset about it, but it doesn’t bother me 

much.’ 3 
Another day he called to her, going the rounds in the 

ward. ‘Sister, come here. Something to show you.’ He 


held up a pair of long woollen stockings. ‘That crazy Red 


Cross,’ he said. ‘Look what they’ve done. Sent me a pair 
of stockings — one for each leg. Isn’t that the great- 
est?’ 

Later this youth was sent down to the Walter Reed 
Hospital in Washington and it was from there that she 
heard from him in the spring. 

‘Some of the fellows are to be sent up to be in the Parade 
— the 27th — with Ryan at its head. I am going to have 
my new legs by that time, and if they fit good perhaps I 
might come. Do you think you could do anything about 
it?’ 

Of course she did a great deal about it — wrote to the 
State Department and to the officers in various directions 
who might help. | 

The night before the Parade, my daughter did not get 
home from the hospital until late, and, when we wondered 
about it, ‘Why, it is just a chance,’ she said, “that I got 
home at all. Some of the men’ — meaning her friends and 
co-workers — ‘will be there most.of the night.’ 

A troopship had arrived — two thousand, where they 
had expected one, with nowhere to sleep except on the floor 
on a rug or a blanket. 


Major Lamond, the Red Cross Head, announced, to 


the delight of his assembled aides, ‘We'll take ’em up to- 
morrow morning to see the show. Let ’em see how we 
feel about the boys who are coming home.’ 

‘But,’ said military discipline, ‘half of them are ill,’ 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 229 


“*We’ll take the well ones, and they can come back and 
tell the others about it.’ 

‘But they haven’t any clothes.’ 

‘Oh, let them go in pajamas, or blankets, or any old 
thing. The fun of it will keep them warm.’ 

And up they went, nearly half of them in pajamas, 
hatless, blankets about their shoulders, some of them in 
wheeled chairs. 

The pavements for a whole block between Eighteenth 
and Nineteenth Streets were green with benches from the 
houses down to the edge of the curb, and here were the 
men, just back from years of suffering and horrors, to see 
how people at home felt about them. 

Then the Red Cross girls hurried back to Sixth Avenue, 
denuded every shop within a block of everything in the 
way of candy, crackers, cigarettes, brought them back to 
Fifth Avenue, and kept their charges supplied, for the 
breakfasts that morning and the suppers the night before 
had been sketchy. The girl attendants went among them, 
feeding them apples, crackers, chocolate, now and then a 
hot drink, and pulling up a blanket, for the early morning 
was cold. 

As the regiments passed, they cheered and sang both in 
the street and on the sidewalk, called to each other, joked, 
every one eager, happy, thrilled. And then came the long 
line of motors with the wounded soldiers who had come, 
under difficulties, to shout their welcome to their friends. 
And there my daughter suddenly saw, in the sixth car, a 
young man waving and smiling at her, and she knew that 
it was Ashi, a rug over his knees, a nurse beside him. She 
ran out, jumped upon the running-board, and rode up the 
street with him, he quite sure that it was through her good 
graces alone that he was there. 


ee yO ae + ae 


230 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Ashi went on with his study of law, which he had begun 
before the War, and graduated. Later, during the Dis- 
armament Conference in Washington, where my daughter 
was living, Ashi came to luncheon with her. She told the 
butler to be sure to help him upstairs, but he scorned all 
assistance, and with the aid of two canes came up to the 
drawing-room, cheerful and laughing as always. A friend 
had brought him to the house and was to call for him in an 
hour and a half. 

When it was time for him to leave, Ashi said: ‘I wish 
you’d come down and see Smith, if you wouldn't mind. 
He’d love it so. You see he can run a car, because he’s got 
one good leg.’ : 

So she went down and sat in the back of the car and had 
a good time going over hospital days with them, and they 
went off, the two young men in the front seat, happy and 
laughing because they had one good leg between them and 
could run a car as well as anybody. | | 

There was one story told by a woman in the hospital — 
which, as she told it, was very dramatic. She had been — 
a Red Cross nurse in France, and when the time came for 


her to leave her work, she felt very sad and very senti- 


mental at the thought of saying good-bye to her charges. 
She had been with these boys for months, had helped some 
of them back to health, and prayed for others in their 
suffering. 

They were such dear, patient, cheerful boys, and she 
knew that many of them had come to depend upon her and 
to love her. She had changed her Red Cross uniform for 
street clothes and stood there looking at them in their rows 
of beds, up and down the two walls of the room, some of — 
them propped up, some of them flat on their backs, some 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 231 


of them in harness, all of them with their eyes pinned upon 


her face. What could she say to them to show how much 
she cared, how much she hated to cease from her labor, 


how hard it was to say good-bye. She felt her eyes fill and 


her lips tremble. 

‘Boys,’ she said — she was a middle-aged woman with 
white hair, but young-looking and very handsome — 
‘Boys,’ she said impulsively, “I’m going to kiss you good- 
bye. Every one of you, just as if I were your mother.’ 

‘I started down the line,’ she explained, ‘bent over and 
touched with my lips the forehead of first one boy and then 
another. Most of them lay very still, many of them with 
their eyes fixed upon mine, and I felt that it moved them, 
the deep maternal undertone of my farewell. 

‘I went down the line among the twelve beds upon one 
side, and started up among the beds upon the other side, 
more and more touched by the way in which each boy 
received it. 

‘Suddenly, as I straightened up from the bed of one 
youth all done up in bandages, my eyes went out down the 
line across the beds ahead of me — there were four of them 
now — and in the end bed was a big fellow flat upon his 
back, his eyes turned in my direction. His face was black! 

‘Something went through me like a chill. I could hardly 
take my eyes away from him. I was not a Southerner, but 
I had all the instinctive prejudices with which the majority 
of American women have grown up. I went forward 
mechanically, moved on to the next boy, bent down, and, 
as I straightened up, I felt again those big brown eyes, 
with their glistening white circles, watching me. I moved 
forward again. I think I did not hesitate, I was sure that 
I must go on, that he was one of my soldiers for whom I 


net be, 70 1 a Dee & ze pa ~ 

2 ee ae ee . 1a. Aa 2 ee 

. Nae PLOPS Lenn aS et ee 
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132 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 
had helped care, a quiet, gentle fellow about whom I had 


quite forgotten until now. 

‘I moved on to the second bed, and then to the one : 
next the colored youth. I found myself saying a half 
prayer, “Help me! You must help me!” I knew that the 
other boys in the other beds were watching curiously to 
see what I would do. I went on slowly, half blindly, with 
cold chills running up and down my spine, until I came to 
him, and found myself leaning down over the black face, 
turned up towards mine. 

“Lady,” he said in his quiet, ‘half-deprecating voice 
— “Lady, you don’t has to kiss re.” 

‘Oh, yes, I do,’”’ I said more naturally than I could have 
done before he spoke. “Oh, yes, I do, you’re one of my 
heroes too.” And as my lips touched his forehead, he lay 
so still and peaceful and wondering — it almost seemed 
a benediction to us both.’ 


There was the terrible abuse of Wilson — almost worse — 
than the abuse of Roosevelt. I began to feel as if I could 
not stand the abuse of any more Presidents. 

My cousin Mrs. S——, an exceedingly pretty and attrac- — 
tive woman, was greatly upset by this feeling towards the 
President, not because she was a violent partisan, but, | 
her father being a good Democrat and a friend of the two 
recent Democratic Presidents, she had been educated in 
his footsteps, and she was conscious of many ideas and © 
opinions which she was not able to express. There was in 
the town where she lived a small group of prominent men, 
bankers, judges, business men, friends of her husband, of 
whom they saw a good deal, who were all Republicans and 
swept along in the popular swim of vituperation. 


a e°. . 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 233 


‘I don’t know what to do, Mary,’ she said plaintively. 
‘I have been brought up to admire Wilson. I’ve read a 
good deal and have tried to inform myself, but I can’t keep 
up with those men. They know a lot more as to facts than 
I do, but I know enough to know that they are awfully 
unfair and prejudiced. They all talk at once and some- 
times altogether, and they drown me out. I just don’t 
know what to do.’ 

Finally, one night when they were all dining together — 
there were two or three other women present, but they 
were nice obedient wives, who thought as their hus- 
bands thought — the conversation came around to the 
absorbing subject of Wilson, and they sailed along say- 
ing everything that any one could think of by way of 
abuse. | 

Once or twice early in the dinner, my cousin made a 
feeble effort to ask a question, or to quote some line of 
wisdom culled from her father, but they turned on her, one 
at a time, or all of them together. 

‘What do you think of his speech at such and such a 


dinner?’ some one would ask politely, in an icy tone. 


“What do you think of his saying ——?’ My poor cousin! 
‘How could I keep track,’ she said, ‘of all the dinners he 
had ever been to? What did I know about any particular 
statement? — statements in general? But I did know that 
these men couldn’t be fair; that they had quite lost their 
heads as far as Wilson was concerned.’ 

She stood it just as long as she could, then she rose to 
her feet — and she must have looked very pretty and at- 
tractive standing alone, flushed and excited and defiant. 
She lifted her wineglass and held it high. She leaned for- 
ward, and said with spirit: 


234 | MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


‘I drink —to the health — of the President of the | 


United States!’ 


There was dead silence; for a minute no one moved. It. 


was as if a bomb had exploded in the middle of the table, 
and then, very gradually, they came back to their senses. 
One man rose to his feet feebly, and then another, and 
so on until they were all standing, solemn and lugubrious, 
while she repeated her toast: 

‘I drink to the health of the President of the United 
States!’ 

And all of those men lifted their glasses, repeated the 
toast, and drank to Wilson. Later, of course, when their 
sense of humor came to their rescue, they laughed, as I 
suspect their pretty young adversary is laughing yet. 


We were all greatly agitated — at the time the whole 
country was agitated — over the Dumba affair. The 
Austrian Embassy was spending the summer in Lenox, 
and while Mr. French and I, in our quiet corner, saw little 
of them, they naturally were part of the life of the neigh- 
borhood. Some of them lived at the Aspinwall, and, be- 


sides the Ambassador, there were in his party, the Baron _ 


K——, who was acting Ambassador a large part of the 
time, and his very distinguished-looking wife, two young 
men who added to the gaiety of the summer, and various 
other officials, and there was little animosity against the 
Austrians. Some people were really neutral, some dearly 


loved a title —it was said that little Mrs, —— became 2 


pro-German overnight! 
It happened at just that moment that my daughter was 


having a small dance in the studio. It was a fancy-dress 


party and had grown to be something of an institution, 


: ie 4 
e aay 
eee 

se. a 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 235 


The question arose as to whether we should ask the Aus- 
trians. I had seen but little of them, but the young 
people felt that they must be invited, especially the two 
attractive young men who had been about to all the 
dances. Y ; 

The invitation was sent, and upon our part promptly 
forgotten. We thought that possibly the two young men 
might come. The dance was to be on a Saturday night 
and on the Wednesday before, the papers came out in 
great headlines that the Austrian Ambassador had been 
discovered in a plot. 

It seems to have been a fact that Dumba had sent home 
a letter, seized by the British, implicating the Austrian 
Embassy with Von Papen and the plots for the destruction 
of munitions in the United States. The country — espe- 
cially the newspaper country — was in an uproar. To us up 
here in our little Berkshire circle, the Austrians became an 
absorbing question. What would they do? Would they 
come to the dance? Would some of them come! 

Baron Dumba, himself, was away at the time, or at least 
he left immediately. But Baron K——, his first secretary, 
had been acting Ambassador much of the time, and he 
and his handsome wife had been apparently fond of 
society. | 

If Madame K stayed away — we imagined the 
questions under discussion — it would look like an admis- 
sion of guilt. If she came, it was just possible that the 
many people who had before been civil might resent her 
presence under the circumstances and look upon it as 
an intrusion. , 

Diplomatic comings and goings are of course arranged 
by rule, and yet in an extreme case, such as this — indeed 


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236 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


e bd 
a case as yet unadmitted — the personal equation must — 


enter to some degree. 


The next day, Thursday, some one from the hotel told ) 


us that while the Austrians had kept to themselves as 
much as possible, while they had been ‘very busy,’ 
Madame K had told some one that they were cer- 
tainly coming to the dance on Saturday evening. | 

The next day, Friday, my daughter and I were at home 
to our friends, as was our custom, and late in the afternoon, 
after every one had gone, I strolled off for a walk down the 
driveway, being omnivorous as to exercise. 

Some half an hour later, at nearly seven o’clock, as I 
came home, there passed me, turning out of the driveway, 
a small brown trap with a brown horse. In it sat Madame 
K and a young man. We waved to each other, and I 
went on to the studio, where I found my family and my 
house guests somewhat amused at what had just hap- 


pened. It seems that shortly after I left, well after six 


o’clock, there appeared in the garden, at the studio door, 
Madame K—— and the young man whom I had seen in the 


trap. She was so sorry to be late; they had wanted to be 


sure to call before the dance; the Baron had intended com- 
ing with her, but had been unavoidably detained, which 
was why they were so late; she was charmed with the studio 
and the garden — such a wonderful place for a dance; she 
and the young man made themselves most agreeable and 
said good-bye, looking forward to seeing us all again the 
next night. Of course every one knew that they had come 
late deliberately so as to meet as few people as possible. 


The next afternoon, Saturday, the day of the dance, at __ 


about four o’clock, while Mr. French was working alone 


‘in the studio, the Baron appeared. He also had an un- 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 237 


known, or at least an unremembered, young man with 
him, and he, also, was most affable and agreeable. He had 
been detained by business the day before and could not 
come with his wife, which he greatly regretted; and he was 
so overwhelmed with business affairs that he could not 
possibly come to the dance, but he wanted to be sure and 
pay his respects to Mr. and Mrs. French. He seemed very 
much inclined to talk, several times upon the edge of 
dangerous ground, to which Mr. French did not respond, 
partly because we were all greatly agitated upon this sub- 
ject, and he, being host, felt it safer not to enter into 
discussions. 

Finally, in reference to his accumulated work, the Baron 
referred to this ‘little episode’ which had caused such an 
excitement in our papers. And later, even without encour- 
agement, went on to say, “Of course you understand that 
this little affair will all be cleared up. It must be. Dumba 
would not for a moment do anything that was in the least 
wrong.’ 

Mr. French did venture to remark, ‘Well, it looks to me 
as if somebody had done something at least very unwise.’ 

Baron K——, at this, shrugged his shoulders, made no 
further comment, certainly no denial, moved about among 
the busts and statues in the studio, and, in a few moments, 
left. 

That evening, the evening of the dance, among the early 
arrivals was an old friend of mine who had known Madame 
K abroad. 

The first thing she said was: ‘Madame K sent you 
a message. She came down to dine in ordinary clothes, and 
later said she was going up to dress for the dance, but not 
in costume. Later still, just before we left, she came down- 


238 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE” 


stairs into the lobby where some of us had assembled, 
sought me out, and asked me to explain to you that at the 
last moment she was obliged to give up the pleasure of 
coming, that K 
leave him: to tell you how sorry they both were.’ 

This, of course, was supposed to be final. But at about 
a quarter to eleven, some one grabbed my arm, and 
said, ‘Look! Look!’ And there in the doorway stood 
Madame K: and by her side the young man who had 
accompanied her the day before. Naturally I went and 
spoke to her and introduced some young men, with whom 
she danced several times. The young men, I afterwards 


found out, were most enthusiastic about her looks and — 


manners. 

To me, she was always distinguished-looking — hand- 
some features, her head erect, great animation, soft brown 
hair, drawn back and twisted loosely. Her clothes were 
hardly as striking as the clothes of American women, but 
there was a natural distinction and breeding about her 
looks that was unusual. Some people were most bitter 
towards the Austrians, and thought there was something 
sinister about her face. Perhaps there was. It was, at any 
rate, more interesting to think so. 

At supper-time she came up to me, quickly, almost hur- 


riedly, and explained that she had only come for a few 


minutes, that the Baron was far from well, that she had 
just run away from him long enough to pay her respects; 
and she and her escort were gone almost before I had time 
to express my regrets. 


It was, altogether, an amusing little episode to us, living, 


as we did, away from diplomatic complications. 


The two young men, the secretaries of the Embassy, did 


did not feel at all well and she must not 


CHESTERWOOD AND THE WAR 239 


CHAPTER XIV 
STOCKBRIDGE 


Tux twin towns of Stockbridge and Lenox are rather dif- 
ferent from other neighboring villages, because they run 


so intimately into each other. Many of the houses, ap- 


parently in Lenox, pay taxes in other towns. Many of the 
houses are only a stone’s throw from their neighbor across 
the border. I said to a friend in Lenox one day, “You are 
so good to help us on our committees and teas in Stock- 


bridge.’ And her answer was, ‘Oh, but I am quite as fond © 
of Stockbridge as of Lenox, and you know I don’t live in — 


either! I really live in Lee!’ Many of the same people 
from Boston and New York, who have always known each 
other, have come to the adjoining towns for years. 

When I first went to Stockbridge and began to look 
about me, I found, as an outsider, many things of interest. 


There was standing at that time the curious old house of 


Jonathan Edwards where is now, to mark the spot, a sun- 
dial upon the lawn of Mr. Brown Caldwell’s place. At the 
end of the street, jutting out over the golf meadows, was, 
and is, the old Indian burying-ground, with its monu- 


ment. ‘To the Friends of Our Forefathers, the Stock- | 


bridge Indians.’ Up on the hill on the old Field estate stood 
the Mission House, built in 1740, by the Reverend John 
Sergeant, who was the first missionary to the Stockbridge 


Indians. This has been moved to the village street by Miss — 


Mabel Choate, renovated with old-time surroundings, and 
made interesting as a memorial to her father. 


NAqGUVO SIH NI YOLdTNAOS AHL 


Ses 


aw 


STOCKBRIDGE | 241 


Then there is the Sedgwick Mansion where the little 
Marquand baby is, I believe, the seventh in descent, to 
sleep in at least one of its great square bedrooms. It is a 
beautiful old house, back from the street, and ought to be 
painted white, or at least a light color, but, having by 
some ancestor been painted a red-brown, the present in- 
habitants plead they can never afford a white coating, as it | 
is so big and it would take so many coats to prevent the 
dark tints from showing through. yz 

When I first lived here, Mr. Henry Sedgwick was an 
elderly gentleman, in appearance a typical handsome old 


‘country squire, with soft grey locks about his ears, a 


dignified figure, and kindly smile. There was the story, an 
old chestnut, to be sure, of the newcomer who years ago 
wandered down the village street, and asked, gazing at 
the red-brown mansion, ‘What house is that?’ ‘Oh,’ said 
his friend, ‘that is the Sedgwick house.’ There were not 
many people abroad, and when a fine-looking elderly 
woman passed, he turned and asked, ‘Who is she?’ “Oh, 
that is Mrs. Sedgwick,’ came the answer. 

Later he saw a thin, middle-aged man with a cane hur- 
rying down the street, and asked, absent-mindedly, “Who 
is that man?’ The answer came, also absent-mindedly, ‘Oh, 
that is Mr. Sedgwick.’ Still later, when he saw some chil- 
dren fighting or playing, or possibly doing both, and in- 
quired about them, he was told, ‘Oh, some of the Sedgwick 
children.’ 

So he strolled along down the street, across the meadows 
to the river, where he stood and meditated upon the bridge. 
‘Listen to the frogs,’ suggested his friend. ‘And I'll be 
damned,’ said the visitor, in telling the story later, ‘if 
they weren’t every one of them saying, “Sedgick, Sedgick, 


o42 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Sedgick,” every one of those old bull-frogs chanting the 
Sedgwick litany.’ | 

And there were the Crowninshields, the wittiest family 
altogether that it has been my pleasure to know; and 
the Tuckermans, especially, during my time, Miss Emily, 
whose high character and love of the beautiful made her 
a power in the life of the town. And the Choates — that 
great man Joseph Choate, greatest of all to the friends 
and neighbors who knew him and loved him. 

And there was Miss Mary Jane Goodrich, the oldest 
inhabitant, hobbling down the street with her cane — 
a very brisk kind of hobble, to be sure — and her memories. 
She knew more about Stockbridge than any one else living 


—about the old people, the old houses, the old stories— _ 


but lately, alas! she has passed on to another world and 
carried her secrets with her. | 

The Laurel Hill Association is the first village improve- 
ment society, founded in 1839, whose annual meeting in 
September is a great event in the countryside. The meet- 
ing is held in the woods back of the schoolhouse, in a beau- 
tiful natural glade, where, against a wall of rock upon one 
side, a rostrum built by the Sedgwick family serves as a 
woodland amphitheatre. Here, at the annual meeting in 
the fall, discussions as to the affairs of the village, or the 
country at large, take place. The great men from all direc- 
tions have come here, and through the years I have 
watched them sitting in a circle, waiting to tell us the 
things which we all wanted to hear — statesmen, church- 
men, literary men; among them, as I look back, Bishop 
Lawrence, Norman Davis, Ralph Adams Cram, Richard 
H. Dana, Booker T. Washington, various Sedgwicks, our 
own Mr. Choate, and numerous others. 


STOCKBRIDGE 243 


There, as everywhere, some funny little incident — 
such as a bench giving way in the audience, an unexpected 
shower — our good clothes, and nowhere to go; and upon 
one occasion, which I remember best, the sun, usually be- 
hind the cliff, breaking through in the wrong place. The 
celebrities looked very uncomfortable, holding up their 
hats, or their hands, or the written speeches, which they 
were afterwards going to make, to shield their eyes: we 
in the audience restless and uncomfortable. It was hard 
to sit still and pretend to be listening with a row of our 
most distinguished countrymen going blind before our 
eyes. 

Suddenly a little old lady in the front row cut the Gor- 
dian knot and cameto the rescue. She rose to her feet, hold- 
ing aloft a tiny beruffled parasol, which even some twenty 
years ago was old-fashioned. She struggled up across the 
intervening space between us and the rostrum, tripping 
over her long skirts, and the uneven ascending ground. 
Arrived at the stone barricade, she held aloft the dainty 
little emblem of a bygone femininity. Mr. Choate leaned 
down and received it as if he were receiving an honor from 
a sovereign. He turned it about, admired it, and then he 
-and the Bishop, who happened to be next him, cuddled 
down under it, and smiled pleasantly, like two big happy 
boys, at their friends left out in the sun. 

Then another little old lady — there were always little 
old ladies in old-fashioned clothes, with parasols, in Stock- 
bridge — a second little old lady became inspired, toddled 
up, tripping over Aer skirts, and presented fer little beruf- 
fled offering — and then another. And there they sat, the 
diplomat and the churchman, the man of letters and the 
scientist, the politician and the professor, all in a row and 


Se RS NOE WAS ie eT eee ee) a cn 
A Leer aes ae We 
4.05 Ge rat Ve , 
NY 


244 | MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


all smiling, all with little parasols, black and white and 


fluffy, above their heads; I admit an occasional umbrella, 
but the picture is so much better without it! Some of them 
had fancy handles and one or two a tassel with which we 
may be sure the diplomat amused himself; and we on- 
lookers, trying to keep our minds upon the dignified ad- 
dress which was being handed out to us. 


The Ice Glen Parade, which until very lately was held : 


annually in Stockbridge, was, I think, a unique occasion. 
It was instituted some sixty or seventy years ago by Miss 


Fanny Kemble, who lived here at one time, and who pre-_ 


sumably brought the idea from some similar féte in Eng- 
land. 

The Ice Glen, as it is called, is in reality a ravine of per- 
haps a mile long through Bear Mountain. It twists and 
turns, at times high rocky walls appear upon either side, 
at other times open woody spaces, and comes out upon the 
hillside a mile from the village. 

The ‘Parade’ took place upon an evening in September, 
usually about the fourteenth, and preferably upon the full 


of the moon. It was got up and managed by the Stock- — 


bridge people, though the young people came in groups 
from the neighboring towns. For a great many years Miss 
Mary Weyman led the procession, and later, several times, 
my daughter. The young people met in front of the hotel, 
in costume, of course, the men carrying torches. The cos- 
- tumes must be short and of not too delicate material, 
suitable for climbing over rocky surfaces, and of late years 
a prize has been given for the most effective. 


From the hotel, at about eight o’clock, they started for- — 


ward in a procession, eight abreast, up the street, turned 


STOCKBRIDGE 246 


‘into the open space beside the schoolhouse, up the irregular 
road through Laurel Hill, and down a winding path across 
_ the railroad and trolley tracks into the great ravine. This 


ravine is supposed to be so dark and cold that even in the 
heat of summer there is always hidden, in some crevice or 
corner, a glint of ice. 

The day of the ‘Parade’ the guards had done various 
things to make the journey less dangerous; cleared away 
rubbish, cut off hanging branches, and put down planks 
across the steep places among the rocks. Also in the even- 
ing they had gone ahead and placed colored lights, green 
and red and blue, at various points of vantage, transform- 
ing the winding column of brilliant revellers into a gor- 
geous pageant. 

It was a strange, romantic sight, every one in costume, 
every one singing and laughing, calling back and forth, 


sometimes a brilliant procession, sometimes a broken 


group, sometimes a straggler, a red Mephistopheles and 
a little Dutch girl, scrambling, or possibly loafing, in the 
rear. On one occasion, a party of Lenox people came 


dressed as Swiss mountain-climbers; the men in Alpine 


hats and with pointed staffs; the women in plaid skirts 
and old daguerreotype jackets, binoculars strung about 
their hips, and little flat hats with tags of ribbon at the 
back or over the ear. The group was bound together by 
a long rope as if for a climb of the Matterhorn, and looked 
for all the world as if they had stepped out of the pages of 
a ‘Godey’s Lady’s Book.’ 

At the far end, where the procession came out upon the 
hillside, back of Mr. William Clarke’s Italian villa, it was 
quite a wonderful sight. I have stood often in the road 
some quarter of a mile below and watched them, just one 


246 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE a 


light at the edge of the wood, then another, and then a 
flitting group, moving, stopping, trailing down across the 
sloping fields under the stars, until they joined us in the 
highway below. Here they formed some eight or ten 


abreast, and zigzagged across the road singing, dancing, — 


with a contingent at the head firing Roman candles as 
they came. 

They always turned in at the Crowninshield driveway, 
dipped down, past the assembled household upon the 
porch, and up and out at the farther end, then down 


the road singing, rollicking, the band playing, the wall of — 


Roman candles ahead, across the bridge, up into the street, 
and back to the schoolhouse where they had started. There 
in the open playground was a great pile of boxes, soaked in 
kerosene — a pile as big, literally, as a house — lighted 
into a terrific blaze; and here the revellers danced about 
until the mountain of fire crumbled into a smouldering 
mass, and the dancers danced off down the street to the 
Town Hall for continued revelry and the awarding of 
prizes. 


Afterwards, when the trolley cars came through the — 


town, they brought such a variety of sight-seers that the 


féte, with occasional exceptions, was given up. 


- During our summers at ‘Chesterwood,’ Mr. French’s 
greatest amusement was to play at portrait painting. He 


always hoped for a free summer when he might go off with 
a painter friend and study, and, with no idea of exhibiting, 
he painted all the girls who came to visit us. He was quite 


wonderful at catching a likeness, which showed, of course, | 


his trained hand and eye in another line of work. 
Some painters, as we know, care but little for the like- 


STOCKBRIDGE 247 


ness, but Mr. French always claimed that, if the drawing 
were absolutely correct, the painting must look like the 
sitter. ‘A likeness,’ he used to say, ‘consists not so much 
in getting in all the details, as in getting what you do get 
right. It really does not need very many details to convey 
an impression of a face or figure. A silhouette is a strong 
likeness as far as it goes, and it goes pretty far in spite of 
the fact that there are no eyes, no ears, no modelling of 
any kind. If the outline is absolutely correct, it looks 
exactly like the person.’ 


John Burroughs was brought to us by our friend, Mr. 
Robert Underwood Johnson. Of course we all knew John 
Burroughs, and every one who knew him loved him; but 
I think of him as he sat upon our porch that day where we 
had our informal supper. Some one offered him a glass of 
ginger ale instead of tea, which the rest of us were having, 
and his answer was, ‘I’d like the ginger ale if — this being 
a kind of picnic supper — you will let me drink it my own 
way, as I do in the woods.’ 

So a pretty girl handed him a bottle and stood by, 
waiting with a glass in her hand. Burroughs took the 
bottle, wrenched off the cap, and all of us watching him, 


before we realized what he was doing, popped the open 


neck into his mouth and drank it off, fizz and all, much 
to our amazement, his own kindly eyes twinkling! 


Paul Manship, too, came to visit us at ‘Chesterwood.’ 
He had been chosen to go to the Academy in Rome, and 
wrote to Mr. French that he would like to come to see him 
in New York, and, as we had already gone to the country, 
we asked him to come up there for a night. He came, and 


248 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


seemed to find so much to interest him in the studioandin 


the country, which was of course very different from that 
of his home in the West, that we asked him to spend a few 
days. Mr. French and in fact all of us were busy, and he 
claimed that he was quite equal to taking care of himself. 
He was. I felt that he saw every inch of everything that 
was in the studio, and every tree and shrub and growing 


thing on the place. I think of him standing in the middle of 


the lawn, gazing at the view and clouds, at the air itself, 
breathing it in. It seemed to me, during those days, that, 
whenever I looked out of the window, I saw this slim, boy- 
ishifigure standing somewhere, anywhere, breathing in the 
beauty which he found everywhere, and which I hoped he 
found more there than in some other places. I always like 
to think of him with us, alone, with only art and nature 


about us, before any one else knew him; before, in fact,he __ 


~ really knew himself. 


Madame Homer never lived there, but I always as- 
sociate her with Stockbridge, because it was there that I 
first knew her. I had remembered her always as did so 
many of her admirers as ‘Orpheus’ in the opera of that 
name, in her boyish drapery. and beauty, a green wreath 
upon her brown hair; but it was lovely to know her in our 
simple village life as just the radiant, joyous mother and 
wife and friend. I remember one day on the village street 


she put her arm through mine, and said, ‘Come over to ~ 


the church with me. I am going to sing there to-morrow 
‘morning, if they can find anybody to play for me.’ So we 
went around to the back of the old-fashioned Congrega- 


tional Church where the young woman who played the 


organ of a Sunday was waiting with the key. We entered, 


Se 


STOCKBRIDGE 249 


Mr. Sidney Homer coming a few minutes later. Mr. 
Homer and I seated ourselves in the middle of the church, 
the only audience. 

The young woman sat at the small organ, Mrs. Homer 
mounted the steps beside the pulpit, and, as easily and 
naturally as an angel, breathed out her big beautiful 
velvety voice until it filled every corner of the bare empty 
room. She was as sweet and gentle with the little organist 
as if the latter were conferring a favor by playing her ac- 
companiments. Now and then as she sang, Mr. Homer 
would hold up a hand, ‘No, that is not right,’ he would 
say; ‘that last syllable, hold it, carry it over’; and over and 
over together they would repeat and repeat, she as an 
obedient child, he as a devoted teacher. 

I, of course, was enthralled to be behind the scenes, to 
get even a glimpse of their method. I turned to him once: 

‘It seems so wonderful to hear her in a simple little vil- 
lage church. I wonder what I should think if I had strolled 
in without knowing anything about it and heard that 
heavenly voice.’ | 

He looked at me sideways for a moment, then his eyes 
twinkled. ‘I know what you would say,’ he said. ‘You 
would say, “What a perfectly lovely voice — if it could 
only be cultivated.””’ 

It was so exactly what I probably should have said, like 
many of my half-musical friends, that I have been often 
reminded of it. 


Isadora Duncan danced in our garden in the early days 
when she was just beginning to be known, and at the time 
in her career when she was most beautiful — young, slim, 
ethereal, like a Botticelli Muse. She had been dancing 


oso MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


at Mrs. Winthrop’s and came over partly because she 
liked our woods and paths, and partly because she thought 
Mr. French would make some suggestion as to her gowns, 
and so on. So we dressed her up in wreaths of flowers and 
pieces of drapery, and tried all kinds of experiments, and 
some of her poses were certainly very beautiful. Of course, 
everything that she did was a pose. She never seemed for 
a moment entirely natural to us ordinary people, but her 


poses and her grace were exquisite. As she danced upon 


the upper terrace of the garden, with her long fragile 
figure, red poppies in her hair, her fleeting motions, she 
seemed like a Greek figure come to life. Her dancing at 
that time was like a breath of nature, but in everyday life, 


though always graceful and beautiful, every motion was — : 


studied, and for years afterwards one of our friends, an | 


artist himself, used to amuse himself by twisting his 
head or his neck or his toes, suddenly and violently out of 
place, and ‘feeling’ like Isadora. 


She lived in a dream; a very artistic beautiful dream; 


and she was apparently conscious of nothing on earth but 


that dream, which perhaps after all is the best part of 3 


creative art. 


She and her sister were living in a boarding-house some 
twelve miles away from us at Monterey, and I remember 


one evening I had to insist urgently that they go home be- 
fore the gathering clouds broke into the threatened thun- 


derstorm. They felt no responsibility themselves, but they 


finally went off in a high buggy like an old chaise, with 


a big raw-boned horse, the reins hanging loosely in the — 


sister's hands; Isadora, like an early American fashion 


plate, ina green-flowered muslin gown, a poke bonnet and 


mitts, waving her hand in a graceful little affected manners 


STOCKBRIDGE 251 


I was hardly polite, because I was so afraid that the storm 
would get them and that they would be washed back 
down the mountain-side into our front yard, from which 
they were starting. As usual, however, I might as well have 
saved myself my fears. They were quite unconscious of 
any danger. It only sprinkled before they reached Mon- 
terey, and she wrote me a four-page foolscap letter the 
next day about how perfect that evening had been, how 
sparkling the raindrops were, how thrilling the rolling 
thunder, and ‘old Pegasus striking fire with his iron shoes!’ 

Later, in New York, when she came to see us one after- 
noon, I remember how very beautiful she looked. She was 
dressed in a dark blue street gown, a wonderful warm, deep 
blue, with a big amethyst jewel, little touches of dull helio- 
trope in hat and gown, and heliotrope tulle about her neck 
— nothing, of course, to describe, but straight from a Paris 
atelier — not only artistic, but chic. 

When she left, some of my guests rushed to the window 
to get a last glimpse of her. She hailed a hansom, and 
I don’t wonder that the man on the box seemed interested 
at the unusualness of his fare. She was standing upon the 
running-board, one foot slightly lifted and resting upon the 
floor, her right hand behind her supporting herself upon the 
dashboard, her left reaching up and resting lightly upon 
the roof. Her body was thrown back, her delicate face 
lifted to the old shabby driver, her seraphic glance shining 
up at him as if he had been a cherub among the clouds. 
The little boys were collecting upon the sidewalk, my 
guests eagerly hanging out of the windows, lost in admira- 
tion. 

Whatever the conversation between the incongruous 
pair, lsadora made the most of it. She stood there un- 


252 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


conscious — aggressively unconscious — her delicate fig- 
ure swaying slightly, her uplifted face radiant, smiling, 
nodding, the bewildered coachman almost tumbling out 
of his perch in his admiration, and then, at just the right 
moment, slowly, deliberately, she gathered herself to- 
gether, mounted into the hansom, seated herself, drew the 


wisps of tulle about her, and, without a glance at her 


assembled admirers, drove away. 
Isadora lived as she danced. Her everyday life, at least 
as to externals, was to her a beautiful Greek rhythm. 


Upon one occasion she was to dance at a theatrical benefit. 


Mr. H——,, a friend of ours, had arranged for her part, the 
sixth number upon the programme, a woodland dance in 
a sylvan glade, the entrance through a high-arched door- 
way at the back. As the time for her appearance ap- 
proached, H——, missing her from the wings, rushed 


around to her dressing-room and opened the door. There — 


the young Greek goddess, radiant in bare limbs and chiffon ~ 


draperies, was seated before her dressing-table. 

‘For God’s sake, Isadora,’ he cried anxiously, “you have 
only five minutes — the stage is set — hurry up!’ 

But the goddess did not move, she did not even look at 
him. ‘I —can— dance,’ she murmured in a voice that 
seemed to have nothing whatever to do with the occasion. 

He hurried to her side, seized her shoulder and shook her 
slightly. ‘Isadora, you ought to be in place. now!” Then, 
impatiently, ‘For God’s sake ——’ 


At this, without a word, the lovely young creature slid : 


nonchalantly, if gracefully, down upon the floor, spread out 
her arms upon the seat of the chair, dropped her head upon 
her arms, and went peacefully to sleep. I would not for a 
moment imply that Isadora had dined too—copiously, 


STOCKBRIDGE 263 


but it was evident that she had dined, that the room was 
hot, and that she was in no condition to go upon the stage. 

H—— flew out of the room and down the hall, found 
Emma, the tirewoman, used to all emergencies, and 
brought her back, a glass of water in one hand, a bottle 
in the other. 

“Here, Madame,’ she cried, holding the glass to the lips 
of the sleeping goddess upon the floor, ‘drink this and 
you'll be all right.’ 

The figure raised her head and drank the contents. In 
another moment — and at this stage there were not many 
moments to spare— Isadora seemed to come to life. A 
tremor ran through her body, she drew herself together, 
and with the assistance of her two neighbors, rose slowly 
to her feet. ‘I — can — dance!’ she said in an impersonal 
drawl. 

They moved slowly out of the room, along the corridor, 
and up to the high-arched doorway, looking across the 
sylvan glade to the audience. For a moment she stood 
there almost as if poised for flight, the toe of one foot just 
leaving the ground, the hands slightly reaching forward, 
the lips parted —— A man’s hand, to be sure, grasped one 
elbow, a woman’s long finger prodded the other — but the 
parted lips breathed ecstatically, ‘I — can — dance!’ 

The audience clapped faintly, tentatively; it was too 
ethereal for noise. 

Suddenly the beautiful figure began to droop, to wilt, 
and dropped gracefully, rhythmically, into a heap upon 
the floor. Slowly she lifted her right arm, rested it against 
the lintel of the door, leaned her cheek caressingly against 
her arm, and went to sleep. 

_ From the dark amphitheatre of the house came a soft 


264 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


breathless ripple of applause. At this, the small head 
lifted, the body swayed, leaned over, rested the left arm 
against the other lintel of the door, pressed’ the cheek 
against that arm, and went to sleep. 

Again a soft ripple of applause swept over the house. 
Back of the great doorway a man’s hand upon one side was . 
reaching in with little tentative jerks, ‘Isadora!’ 

Upon the other, a woman’s sharp fingers were grasping 
a near-by shoulder — ‘Just another mouthful, you know; 
it'll help you!’ | 

The little sleeping figure drew herself together, unfolded 
slowly, and, with unseen hands upon either side supporting 
her, rose gracefully and leisurely to her feet. Innocent and 
radiant, she stood before them, the lips parted, the hands 
reaching out —a burst of music, a step forward — the 
long swinging limbs, the floating figure, the lights, the 
ecstasy 

Isadora had never danced like this, so said the papers. 
The tirewoman, phlegmatic, ‘It always does it!” — Mr. 
H— in a state of collapse — terror or joy — he never 
knew which; and Isadora, ethereal, untouched, the rhythm, 
the joy, the beauty, for which she lived. 


Naturally the most distinguished man of the neighbor- 
hood, whom Stockbridge was proud to claim and to honor, 
was Mr. Joseph H. Choate. I remember him chiefly, those 
early years of my life there, as he looked riding down the 
village street on a big bay horse, handsome, distinguished, 
smiling. I always think of Mr. Choate as radiating happi- 
ness, because, I suppose, of that beautiful smile and the 
twinkle lurking behind it. In the middle of the most seri- 
ous conversation, you felt that some humorous touch 


STOCKBRIDGE 255 


might leap forth at you at any moment. My little secre- 
tary, who at one time worked for Mr. Choate, tells me that 
sometimes, when they were working upon a case which 
seemed to her almost hopelessly profound, he would stop 
her suddenly, hold up a hand, the fun creeping into his 
eyes, and tell her some funny story, and for the moment 
they would forget about the law and diplomacy and laugh 
over it together. 

He was very fond of people, especially so, perhaps, in 
those later years when he had more or less retired from 
active life, the years during which it was our fortune to 
know him best. He always talked with people wherever he 
met them, brilliantly, easily, spontaneously. He liked to 
go about, but especially he liked to have people in his own 
home. 

I remember being asked to one very small afternoon 
affair in the early season, when Mrs. Choate laughingly 
confided to me that she was not ready for a tea, that the 
house was not settled, that the curtains were not up, but 
that Mr. Choate could not possibly wait: that there was 
some one there from China whom they must entertain, 
and also that he wanted to see his friends and neighbors 
early in the summer. 

I think he would have liked to have a ‘day at home,’ and 
sometimes claimed that the family would not let him, 
though I imagine he realized well enough that the great 
number of people who would come from all over the coun- 
tryside would be something of a strain upon both Mrs. 
Choate and himself. 

One late afternoon, when Mr. French ad I were having 
tea with them on the terrace of their house, Mr. French 
remarked, apropos of the exaggerated social columns with 


2s6 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


which the newspapers tried to make our rather quiet 
neighborhood a fashionable resort, “I saw in the paper, a 
few days ago, that Mrs. Choate had just given a large 
reception.’ 

‘Really?’ said Mr. Choate in a surprised tone. He leaned 
forward as if he were considering the subject deeply, then 
he sank back rather limply in his chair. ‘There,’ he said, 
in a tone slightly injured, ‘I have been waiting to have a 
tea all summer, and now Carrie has gone and had one 
without my knowing anything about it.’ 

Once, when we came out of the village church — it had 
not been a religious service — possibly something to do 
with the war — we stood talking with them in a group at 
the carriage door. Suddenly Mr. Choate looked down at 
Mr. French’s shoes and began to laugh with a laugh that 
was almost a chuckle. i 

‘There,’ he exclaimed, turning to his wife, ‘didn’t I tell 
you so? I knew French would wear brown shoes.’ Then, 
to me, ‘My whole family fought with me, wanted me 
to change my shoes, were mad because I was firm and 
wouldn’t do it. I told them that French would wear brown 
shoes. I was sure of it.’ | 

This, of course, was absurd. Mr. French seldom went 
to anything in the village, and I am quite sure that Mr. 
Choate had never before noticed his shoes, but it made us 
all laugh, especially Mrs. Choate, which he loved, of all 
things, to do. | 

He always made fun of every one — 1 mean of his in- 
timate friends in the audience — whenever he made an 
address, and the people made fun of enjoyed it and laughed ~ 
with the rest. | 


I was in the habit of staying at home on Friday after- — | 


STOCKBRIDGE 257 


noons, because I lived so far out in the country that it 


was the only way I could see my friends. Mr. Choate came 


very often and never missed a chance of any small joke 
that he could nail onto my innocent little teas. He used to 
say: ‘Let me see! How many visitors did you have yester- 
day? Only about twelve? You’re falling off — falling off! 
I’m glad I wasn’t there. I like a party.’ At another time 
he would remark: ‘I saw you had a great occasion last 
Friday. All the élite of the Berkshires flocking over there. 
I had to be in New York. Too bad, wasn’t it?’ 

One very cold day in October, he came over. There had 
been various people earlier in the afternoon who had gone 
home. When he came in, another gentleman with him, 
seeing three or four of the family sitting about having 
tea, he said: ‘Why! Why, is ¢his the reception I brought 
my friend M—— to? A foreign ambassador, I’m afraid 
he’ll think he’s come under false pretenses. I told him that 
there would be at /east seventy-five people — and nobody 
but Mrs. French, and Margaret, and Clara Morse. Well, 
well, M——, we will have to make the best of it.” And his 
eyes twinkled as they always did when he had a joke on 
somebody. 

As he grew older and went out less into the big world, he 
used to say that Mrs. Crowninshield’s Thursdays and Mrs. 
French’s Fridays saved his life. 

During that critical week in 1917, when the English 
Commission came over and urged our help in the war, Mr. 
Choate was, naturally, very much to the front. Day after 
day, wherever the distinguished visitors went, Mr. Choate 
seemed to be always with them doing his share — he was 
eighty years old — and we began to wonder how he could 
stand it. It was probably the great dinner given in honor 


268 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


of the foreign guests at which he presided that used up his 
strength more than anything else. 

One day Mr. French came home, and in his account 
of the services at the Columbia Library, said, ‘It really 
scared me to see Mr. Choate climbing that tremendous 
flight of steps. He didn’t seem to mind it, but every one 
else was anxious about him.’ I think it was the very next 
morning that, when the paper arrived, there, in large letters, 
was the announcement of his death. My first thought was, 
‘Poor Mrs. Choate!’ and my second, ‘What a glorious way 
to gol’ 

I heard, afterward, a little story of one of those evenings 
when the Commission had been dining with him, After 
dinner, they went into the front room and sat in a group 
before the fire. Mr. Choate said: ‘I have a proposition to — 
make while we are sitting here. I should like to choose the 
subject, and my suggestion is that we discuss the immor- 
tality of the soul.’ ae 

So those men, all of them very distinguished, put aside 
the war and the subjects which had been uppermost in 
their minds, and sat there and discussed ‘the immortality 
of the soul.’ | 


It was during the last years of the war that Mr. French © 
made, or at least finished, the seated statue of Lincoln for 
the Memorial in Washington. His friend, and for years his 
collaborator, Henry Bacon, had been appointed the archi- — 
tect to design and build the Memorial, and he immediately 
engaged Mr. French to make the statue for which his beau- 
tiful building was to be the shrine. This was in 1915, but it 
was not till 1920 that it was finished and erected. 

Few people understand the hazards, aside from the labor, 


IN THE 


MEMORIAL AT WASHINGTON 


THE STATUE OF LINCOLN IN PROCESS OF ERECTION 


ay 


STOCKBRIDGE 269 


of cutting a statue in stone. The finest marble still comes 
from the ancient quarries in Italy — Carrara and Serravezza; 
but however carefully selected, a dark spot or defect of some 
sort may develop, necessitating the choosing of another 
block and beginning all over again. An excellent white 
marble from Georgia was chosen as being particularly well 
adapted to the execution of so large a figure as the Lincoln. 

The popular idea that a sculptor rises from his couch at 
midnight, seizes his mallet and chisel, and, in a fine frenzy, 
hews out a beautiful statue before morning, exists only in 
poetry. Sculpture is a much more serious business than 
that. Occasionally a sculptor, when the spirit moves him, 
himself cuts a head or a torso out of the marble without a 
model or previous study, but usually the sculptor’s model 1s 
copied by a marble-cutter and finished by the artist. There 
is evidence to prove that the old-time sculptor proceeded 
in much the same way as do the sculptors of the present 
day. 

In order to determine how large the statue should be, a 
temporary plaster model of the Lincoln was made about 
twelve feet in height and erected in place in the Memorial. 
This proved much too small, and two solar prints were 
made, one eighteen feet in height, the other twenty feet, 
and put in place. Cut out from the background, they 
looked strangely like the real thing, and, as a consequence 
of these experiments, the statue was eventually made 
twenty feet in height instead of twelve as was originally 
planned. Mr. French and Mr. Bacon, our daughter, and 
Evelyn Longman, who did much of the decorative work 
in the Memorial, went down to Washington to try the ex- 
periments. 

Piccirilli Brothers were awarded the contract to cut the 


260 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


Lincoln in marble from the plaster model. The great size 
— it is, I believe, the largest marble statue in existence — 
made it necessary to build it up from twenty pieces of 
stone. It is a proof of the accuracy with which the copy- 
ing is done that, although the pieces were cut separately 
and were not assembled until put together on the pedes- 
tal in the Memorial, they fitted as perfectly as if carved 
from one block and sawn apart. : 

Mr. Bacon and the young architects in his office worked 
for some ten years upon the plans — once given the order 
it became the absorbing object, the inspiration of his life. 
He took but small interest in other work, his whole mind 
seeming to concentrate upon the gradual evolving of this 
monument, as well as to the idea of abstract beauty for 
which it stands. ; 

A year after its completion he died at the age of fifty- 
eight. His friend Dan French said of him, at the time, 
that it seemed as if Bacon had been created for the sole 
purpose of making the Lincoln Memorial; that he had 
achieved a reputation for monumental work when the 
commission was given him; that after its achievement it 
would have been difficult for him to go back to more com-— 
monplace work; that, his great work finished, it seemed _ 
almost part of the scheme that he should pass on. | 

Great honor was conferred upon him. The greatest of 
these, and indeed the greatest ever conferred upon an — 
architect in America, was when the Institute of Architects 
presented its medal to him at a dinner which concluded the 
Annual Meeting of the Institute in Washington, May 18, 
1923. Owing to a passing indisposition Mr. French was 
unable to be present. : 

The dinner, attended by five hundred members and 


STOCKBRIDGE 261 


guests, was held in a great marquee at the east end of the 
Lagoon in front of the Lincoln Memorial, and at its close 
there was a beautiful pageant. Bacon, attended by the 
President of the Institute, guests of honor, and special 
guests, embarked upon a barge in the Lagoon and this, es- 
corted by the members in costume upon either bank, was 
rowed down to the steps of the Memorial, which was ef- 
fectively illuminated for the occasion. Here President 
Harding awaited them, and, introduced by Chief Justice 
Taft, the Permanent Chairman of the Lincoln Memorial 
Commission, he presented to Henry Bacon, with an ap- 
propriate address, the Gold Medal of the American Insti- 
tute of Architects — ‘the highest honor within its power 
to give.’ Mr. Cortissoz referred to Henry Bacon as ‘an 
embodied conscience.’ 

When the Monument was finished and the statue put 
in place, it was found that the lighting was so bad that 
for those first few years it was a constant grief to the 
sculptor and his artist friends. If Mr. Bacon had lived, 
this could, of course, have been corrected, but, with the 
architect of the building gone, it became a serious problem. 

As at first designed, the whole ceiling was of glass, the 
light coming from above, as it should to light the statue 
properly. During the process of building, the scheme was 
changed and a slightly colored marble was used in place of 
the glass. This gave a beautiful soft glow to the interior of 
the great room, but, alas! it, in conjunction with the hard 
light coming from the blue sky in front, was fatal to the 
face. At certain times of the day it was well enough, but at 
other times the effect was distressing. It made the face 
lined and haggard, and the knees unduly prominent. I 
think at the time, Mr. French was so discouraged about it, 


262 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


and for a while so hopeless of any solution of the problem, 


that he felt that it could never look as it was intended to 
look. 


Nothing could be done, of course, without the Govern- 


ment’s sanction and an appropriation from Congress, and 
such processes, as we all know, are likely to be tedious. 
However, things did straighten out in an unexpectedly suc- 


cessful manner. Mr. Cannon, a great friend andadmirerof 
Mr. Bacon, bestirred himself, as did Mr. Bush-Brown, the __ 


sculptor, General Sherrill, and later his successor, Colonel 
Ulysses S. Grant, 3d. Congress appropriated the money — 
we heard it said afterwards that the name of Lincoln was — 
an open sesame, that in Congress as elsewhere, when- 
ever Lincoln was mentioned, money flowed in — and, after 


months and indeed years of experimenting, a system of — 


artificial lighting was installed which has made it quite as 
successful as it could be under the best circumstances. 
It is always difficult for laymen to understand the im- 


portance of the lighting of a statue, while the sculptor 
knows that the lighting is, after all, about all there is toit. 


In a painting, there is always some glint of color, and there — 


are at least no projections to throw fierce shadows, while 
in a modelled head, save for the proper lighting, there is _ 


simply the nose standing out into space, a few lumps by 
way of cheek-bones, eyebrows, a lock of hair upon the fore- 
head, to catch the light and throw deep smooches. i 
For years, Mr. French has mildly quarrelled with some 
of his dearest friends among the painters, as to the placing 
of sculpture in the exhibitions. The painters do not, quite 
naturally, want a big white bust close to their pastel moon- 
light scenes, and so they are inclined to place them upon 
radiators, and in obscure corners, and let them go at that. 


ainjdjnos uo Sunysiy jo syoayo JussayIp oy} Surmoys 
NOLONIHSVM NI ANLVLS NIOONIT AHL AO GVAH AHL AO SHAVUDOLOHd OML 


STOCKBRIDGE 263 


During the struggle with this problem about the lighting 
of the Lincoln, he had two pictures taken of the big statue 
in Washington, which have turned out to be valuable as 
well as interesting. He and his photographer took, first, a 
photograph of the seated figure as it stands in his studio 
at ‘Chesterwood,’ the light coming from above, a perfect 
light, the one in which it was made; then they pulled the 
statue around into the worst light they could find, the rays 
coming criss-cross from different angles. The two pictures 
I give — the first as if a beautiful woman were photo- 
graphed in evening clothes, with all the accessories of 
studio lights, etc.; the second, the same woman as if a flash- 
light had been suddenly turned upon her face. 

Having the kind of mind which seems to retain anecdotes 
about all kinds of subjects, I am reminded of a little story 
which I think would appeal to any lover of children. 

A prominent lady of Washington wrote Mr. French that 
she had taken her little boy of five years to see the Lin- 
coln. When they entered the great interior, he stood 
quietly by her side, so quietly that she forgot that he was 
there. Suddenly he pulled her skirts and said in a loud 
whisper, ‘Mother, shall I take off my hat?’ She agreed 
that being of the genus man, even though in such an 
embryonic quantity, it would be the proper thing to do. 
Later, as he seemed to be in a very quiet mood, she let him 
wander around by himself, while she looked at the statue, 
the frescoes, the beautiful outlook between the columns. 

Suddenly she noticed that he had climbed upon the 
lower step of the pedestal and was reaching up and patting 
the marble flank of the statue, with his small hands. She 
went over to him and lifted him down and mildly reproved 
him, 


264 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


‘You must be very quiet in here,’ she said, “and not do 
anything that could seem disrespectful.’ 

He looked slightly crestfallen for a moment and then 
said, half apologetically, ‘I was only going to climb up in 
his lap, Mother, he looked so lonely!” 


CHAPTER XV — 
TAORMINA: A MEDIEVAL WEDDING 


Upon a semicircular curve of rock, midway between the 
sea and sky, hangs the old Greek town of Taormina. Fora 
mile or more it runs along the face of the cliff, like a narrow 
mantelpiece, the Catania Gate at one end, the Messina 
Gate at the other; the little streets to the right straggling 
up the hillside; those to the left meandering down among 
the gulches below, a nest for an eagle, an abode for a ban- 
dit, rather than a habitation for modern man. Yet it has 


hung there for two thousand years, gripping the wall of 


cliff, fighting off invaders, above even the mighty forces 
of Nature, the earthquakes and eruptions which have 
devastated the country below. 

Back of the street and towering above it are two great 


‘pointed peaks, upon the summit of one the tiny Greek town 


of Mola, upon the other an old Sekelian castle, ruined and 
ragged, flaunting its history to the sky. 

In front of this great amphitheatre of a view, facing the 
town, curving into the rocky coast, stretching off to the 
very limits of vision, lies the ocean, calm, unbroken, where 
almost no ship comes in the winter, the great lonely Ionian 
Sea. 

And off to the right, with wild fields and hills and gorges 
between, above the town, above the sea, above all life and 
sustenance of life, lies Etna. For the volcano towers above 
the island, not like Stromboli, fierce and rebellious upon 
its isolated rock, but swinging up in long, graceful lines ten 
thousand feet, almost, from the plains below, gentle, bene- 


366 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


ficent, like the limbs of a sleeping woman, silent, glisten- 
ing, its very crater stilled by the distance into a lonely 
thread of smoke, like a mighty shrine where the gods 
themselves must have worshipped in the early days of the 
world. 

The little towns cluster about its base, reaching up to it, 
basking in its smile, one of them swallowed up now and 
again, to be sure — five cities, I believe, buried beneath 
shabby old Catania upon the water’s edge, one of them 
with an amphitheatre somewhere within its depths, second 
only in size to the one in ancient Rome. | 
. Taormina, they tell you, is safe— so far — and also 
Randazzo — especially Randazzo! In this most entranc- — 
ing town among the hills, the most medizeval, it is said, in — 
all Sicily, they will explain to you that Randazzo is quite 


safe — because of the great faith of its people. This has | 


been proved many times. When the mountain has sent a 
seething torrent down its sloping flanks, down almost to 
the city’s edge, so that, the guide-book tells you, you can 
feel the stifling air upon your face, the people of Randazzo 
have gone forth with their sacred relics, have stood in their — 
windows or in the open doorways of their churches and 
offered up prayers, and, behold! the mighty mass of de- 
struction, creeping upon them, ominous, inevitable, has 
turned suddenly, silently, without apparent cause — save 
possibly a chasm of two or three thousand feet — and gone 
its way down to the sea. 

Every one talks about Etna just as in Japan every one © 
talks about Fuji-yama, native and stranger alike. The con- 
versation at breakfast in the dining-room of our little 
‘Diodoro ’ was usually about the sacred mountain — when 
it was not about the more or less sacred bath. 


' 


TAORMINA 267 


“Who saw AEtna this morning?’ some one would ask at 
breakfast of a friend the length of the small dining-room. 

*T did.’ 

‘When?’ 

‘Oh! about six.’ 

‘That wasn’t early enough. I was out there at five, new 
crater over to the left — color enough to set the world on 
fire.’ 

For there it lay, always before us, the delectable moun- 
tain, in the sun of our admiration, sometimes glittering 
cold against the blue, sometimes veiled in wisps of pink and 
silver, and drifting mauve, its thread of incense curling up, 
or perhaps a new and tiny crater seeping through the icy 

BE surface to live for a day and die upon the morrow. How 
could one watch it early and late and worship at it, and not 
talk about it! 

But quite often it was the daily ablution, rather than the 
volcano, that we talked about, for that, too, was a burning 
subject to us Americans, brought up to a bathroom apiece 
and one or two over by way of good measure. There were 
difficulties to overcome, and every one was interested in a 
common cause. 

‘You didn’t really take a bath in that refrigerator!’ 
This usually to a Britisher newly arrived. ‘How could 
you?’ 

‘And you know you can get perfectly clean,’ explains a 
young woman to a newcomer — across the table, or pos- 
sibly in her enthusiasm, across the breakfast-room. “I just 
lather myself all over with soap — and hot water — and 
splash myself with cold water ——’ She stops, suddenly, 
a startled interest in this vivid picture of herself upon the 
faces at the tables about her. 


Se ee A 
Pe Cap 


aw! 
wm. 


Be Eee ae 


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268 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


We first thought of going to Taormina the winter after 


the Armistice, partly to get away from everything we had * 


ever known or heard of before, and partly to economize. 
My husband thought there was scant economy in taking 
him away from his work for six months, but I knew well 
enough that board at a dollar and a half a day and laundry 
at fifty cents a week would, to a housekeeper who had lived — 
through the soaring prices of the war, be something — a 
mental economy, to say the least — that was worth trying. 
Our friend, Mr. de Bruce, who was present, suggested: 
‘Oh, if you want to economize, don’t go to Taormina, go to | 
Mallorca. It’s a heavenly spot, and I know a man who 
lived there in a villa with towers and terraces, and all kinds 
of attractive things, and he paid only sixty dollars a month, 
and the natives said he was cheated because he was an 
American; that he should have paid only thirty-five.’ 
However, we went to Taormina, and no one ever regrets 
going to Taormina. People tell of other enchanting spots, 
quite as beautiful, possibly more so— Rapallo, for in- 
stance, or Mallorca of the magnificent roads, the wonder- 
ful views; and then they admit, ‘Of course there isn’t any 
mountain.’ The mountain! Ah! but that is the whole point 
of the story. It is the mountain, the shrine, with its in- — 


cense curling up telling the secrets of the ages, to which all — 


the longings, the mysteries of our natures cry out. The 


rest is a setting, the winding road, the decaying cities, the 


lonely, lonely sea, the worshipping hills, leading up to this — 
brooding magnificence in the sky. | | 

It was because the other hotels were full that we stayed 
at the tiny Diodoro, hardly more than a pension, slightly — 
below the road, the long doors opposite the entrance, al 


opening out upon the terrace, the terraced garden below 


‘ 
- 
+ 4 
ci 
A 
ie 
‘a 
“An 
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ae 
4 
F 
zy! 
A 
aa! 


TAORMINA 269 


dropping down, down, down to the sea, the long windows 
of the second floor giving upon balconies, and looking off 
into all the kingdoms of Sicily. 

That first day of our arrival, we went down to the town, 
along a narrow, irregular road, part of the time between 
muddy walls, among small houses and low rooms, some of 
them hardly more than holes in the walls, twisting and 
turning here and there, up a few steps, into the Corso. We 
walked along, five of us abreast, our daughter and Mr. 


_ Cresson, whose engagement had just been announced upon 


leaving America, Mrs. Duryea, who was travelling with us, 
Mr. French, and myself. * 

This particular Corso in Taormina is a wonderful spot, 
the centre, the heart of the town — while you are there, 
of the universe — the market-place among the hills, the 
forum where every one walks, every one talks, where 
you meet your friends, where invitations are given and ac- 
cepted, and — very rarely — declined. 

‘Did you ask So-and-So to luncheon?’ 

‘No, I did not see him. He wasn’t on the Corso. I don’t 
know where he could have been.’ 

There were no telephones, no motors, save the few at the 
hotels, which you hired, if you were rich enough, for fifty 
dollars a day. If you invited any one at all, you invited 
them upon the street. It was a narrow street, a flat, worn, 
paved roadway, spreading out slightly in front of the 
church, a high parapet looking off to the view, and then, 
along the still winding thoroughfare, the tiny shops, an- 
tiques — laces, antiques — embroideries, antiques — and 
still antiques — you can hardly buy a spool of thread in 
Taormina — funny little holes in the wall where food is 


sold, bowls of dried beans, and berries and lentils, strings 


270 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


of onions and peppers, and mean-looking diminutive figs, 4 
few piles of unfamiliar green things — and the inhabitants, 
clustered like the figs and the lentils, about the doors. 

_ These dear Sicilians, who never do anything in the house 
that can possibly be done in the street; indeed, sometimes, 
like the Litany, things are done in the street that would be 
better left undone. 

The day of our arrival, as we strolled along the Corso, as 
we all stroll in these isolated countries, forgetting every- 
thing we have so cheerfully left at home — just meander- 
ing, drinking it in, the leisure, a very abandonment of 
leisure; with nothing to do that one has ever done before; 
with no one to see that one has ever even heard of, I, who 
seem to have a faculty for seeing things and remembering 
people, beheld, coming towards us with our own blissfully 
idle swagger, swinging his cane and gazing aimlessly upon 
nothing at all, a young man about whose face and figure 
there was something startlingly familiar. He was a very 


dapper young man, in brown knickers, and his soft brown 


hat, with the tiny pin-feather which bespeaks anywhere 
the tourist, entirely different from any one we had so far 
seen on the Island. ) 

As he came nearer, our eyes met — that is, his eyes me 
mine — and for some reason they continued to meet; they 
held, they clung, our heads swung around slowly as if upon 
pivots, our bodies still going forward, until the rest of the 
party, thinking I had gone crazy, came to my rescue. 

He was an old friend from America, and we were all as 
glad to see each other as are the usual wanderers who go 
off into the far corners of the earth in search of rest and 
solitude. : | 

And after that we kept meeting people—everybody 


re 2 


TAORMINA ont 


seemed to turn up in Taormina — the floating, drifting, 
picturesque society of a shelf-of-a-town, so far away, so up 
in the clouds, so dramatic a spot that your friends drift in 
during the short winter months, and a few people, with a 
great love of art and a great lack of money, live there all 
the year round. 


And the bandits! We began to hear about the bandits 
before we left New York. It was just before Mussolini and 
the Fascists had appeared upon the horizon, and there 
were great disturbances in Italy, but when we reached 
Taormina it was peaceful enough. 

The bandits Sicily has always with her, the Mafia 1s al- 
ways rampant, but they keep it pretty much to them- 
selves. To an outsider, I think it is rather more dangerous 
in New York than in its native land. 


These first weeks seemed almost unreal in the beauty 
amid which we lived — the clean-cut sunshine, the white 
brooding mountain, the prehistoric views. We tramped 
among the hills looking for bandits, we climbed up one 
sugar-loaf mountain to the old Sicilian castle and the other 
sugar-loaf to the little town of Mola, sprouting out of its 
peak of rock. A wonderful old walled town is Mola, a tiny 
Greek city upon one of the mountain peaks back of 
Taormina, wonderful to read about, romantic to gaze upon, 
a thrilling climb up to the old stairway hugging the great 
point of rock upon which it stands. 

This stairway is one of the joys of Taormina, a narrow 
road cut out of the face of the rock, at one side a low railing 
with the universe beyond; at the other side, the towering 
projecting cliff. It clings in so close under the precipice, it 


272 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE — 


is so a part of the mountain, indeed of the foundations of 
the world, that you know it leads up to a realm half hu- 
man, half mystic — you expect to see Brunhilda or Lohen- 
grin with trumpets and banners, and — you see only a 
little patient donkey with its mountain of brush, jerking 
itself up or down, not even knowing that it has missed its 
part in the romance of the world. a 
At the top is a high stone arch or gateway, opening, of 


course, into the esplanade, a low wall around two sides, ><: 


stone benches, and looking off — suddenly and violently — 
looking off — over the hills and the town below, the sea— 
and the universe! Old peasants are sitting about upon the — 
cold seats and the cold parapets, and the place is full of 
dirty children and pigs. i 

Back of the esplanade, upon two sides and away from the 
view, is the town, and what a town! It has stood there for | 
three thousand years, more or less, and it looks it! I have 
read of a few points of interest in the guide-books, perhaps _ 
they read better than they look — or smell; little cellar- 
like houses, moss-grown streets, with the saving grace of — 
a glint now and then of the sky, as clear and blue as in,’ 
days when old Dionysius besieged this impregnable rock, 
toppled over its walls, and was killed for his pains. 

Some one has justly called it ‘a city of views, of pigs, and 
of smells.’ 


And then the wedding! Not chronologically, of course, 
for that had taken place upon the tenth of January, before — 
we had become so intimate with the life in Sicily, the hill — 
towns, and the bandits. The wedding was, naturally, the 
great event of our winter. In one way, so far as Taormina | 
was concerned, it was an accident. We were there and it 


iy a 


TAORMINA 273 


just happened, and for that reason it was so unusual, so 
spontaneous, that at the risk of being accused of lack of 
reserve, of lack of delicacy — which in other people’s 
memoirs I especially dislike —I feel that a medieval 
wedding, upon the edge of a volcano, in this unroman- 
tic year of 1921, is almost too good to keep to one’s 
self. , 

We have all read about people being married up in air- 
planes, and down in coal mines, and, for all I know, by the 
benefit of radio, but the one thing which saved our wedding 
from the ignominy of a connubial trick was the fact that 
we were at that time living in Sicily, and that the pictur- 
esque things which happened to us were the everyday 
events of our picturesque lives. 

There had never before been an English-speaking wed- 
ding in Taormina, but of this we were at the time unaware. 
In fact, we did not know, until later, that there was to bea 
wedding at all. We just thought that two people would go 
over to the Santa Caterina and be married very quietly, 
which is an entirely different affair from a wedding, from 
the New York point of view. 

When we had left America in the fall of 1920, there was 
a vague idea that the marriage might take place in Rome, 
where we had friends. Our daughter, naturally forehanded, 
took with her her mother’s wedding gown. In Palermo, 
again forehanded, she had bought some cream-colored silk 
net by way of a veil, and in Taormina we had found — the 
only thing in the way of antiques that we ever saw during 
the whole winter bearing the slightest relation to a trous- 
seau — some twenty yards of fine old Cluny lace, which 
went a long way toward the making of a bride — not so 
far, | admit, as it could be stretched at the present moment 


274 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE’ 


— when all that are needed are a few wisps of chiffon, a 
jewel, and — legs! 

After we had been there a week or two, the engaged 
couple came home one Sunday morning from service in 
Santa Caterina over the way, and announced that they 


were going to be married, very soon, perhaps, in the chapel " 


of the monastery. They were sure that Miss Hill, who 
owned it, and whom we already knew, would let them have 
it for the occasion. They wouldn’t have a real wedding, of 
course. They would just go over some morning and be 
married. 

The idea rather appealed to me, as letting us out of the 
difficulties of a function in Rome in a borrowed palace and 


all the complications of foreign ceremonies and a foreign _ 


tongue. I had in mind another very lovely wedding in the 
family connection in America, with special trains, hun- 
dreds of motors, twelve ushers, ten bridesmaids, flower 


girls and pages, the bride in a collapse beforehand, and the — 


whole family in a state of nervous prostration forever 
afterwards. Really nature is all wrong! Mothers should be 
born younger than their daughters if they are me airs to 
keep up with them. 

Of course all human plans are subject to change, but you 


can’t change your responsibilities much in a little Sicilian 


town upon a cliff, with nothing but beauty to look at or 
think about. What little alteration there was to be done to 


the dress was done by a nondescript young woman who 


did everything for everybody: who rubbed people’s backs 


when they had lumbago, who washed people’s hair when _ 
they needed it, or who sewed old lace casually up and 
down the front of wedding gowns and veils, which in 


our case made the bridal robe so much more appropriate 


ANGEL FOR WHICH MARGARET FRENCH POSED 


“) 
t 
(js 
, 
‘ 
: fl 
nae 


TAORMINA 275 


than if she had known anything at all about fashions or 
style. 

But whatever we lacked as to clothes, we more than 
made up as to atmosphere, for old Santa Caterina is a 
wonderful spot, a twelfth-century monastery, six hundred 
feet up in the air, in the midst of walls and beautiful 
grounds. 

- But I wish to announce, here and now, that, as there had 
never before been a wedding within its walls, so there can 
never be another. It was sold a few weeks later to the 
White Sisters and must be devoted for the future to con- 
templation and prayer. 

The monastery had been bought and furnished with old 
Italian things some years before by an Englishwoman, 
Lady Hill, who with her family had lived there until her 
death; her daughter, Miss Hill, still lived in an attractive 
villa just across the road. From the first we had been 
thrilled by it, the stately iron gates facing from a distance 
the white volcano, the long row of honeycomb Saracen 
tombs flanking its outer wall; the road, of which we could 
catch a glimpse, winding up from the gate to the beautiful 
old facade of the Monastery. 

The cortile was in the centre of the building, with its 
fountain and hanging vines. Upon one side stood a small 
chapel, at that time being used as an English church, upon 
the other, the rather magnificent refectory, sixty-three by 
thirty-three feet, with a timbered ceiling and a tiled floor; 
a splendid renaissance doorway at one end; at the other, an 
old fresco of Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Last Supper.’ It is the 
only monastery which I ever wanted to sit right down and 
live in. I still think of a little French morning-room up 
three steps at the end of a long corridor of bedrooms, the 


276 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE — 


small iron balcony opening out upon a bluff of rocks and 
greenery, many feet above the entrance door. 


A few days later, our daughter announced that they | 


thought they would be married very soon. 


‘We can have the monastery and do anything we want — 


to, but we think we won’t have just a family wedding, be- | 


cause if you and Papa and Nina [Mrs. Duryea] are the only 


ones, and so far from home, you'll all cry, and we don’t 


want a “cryey” wedding. As we have no old friends, 
we must invite some of those nice English and American 


people here at the hotel. They won’t take it too seri- 


ously.’ 
So we invited first a group of pores girls who sat at 


the table upon one side, and an English family who sat ata — f 


table upon the other side, telling them that it was to be a 


very quiet affair, that we were asking only our oldest and 


dearest friends — of three weeks. 


It is really amusing how people go off into the most dis- __ 


tant corners of the earth in search of rest and quiet, and 


how excited they get at the first sign of anything happen- _ a 


ing. We found in about two days that every one in town 
knew about it and was planning on coming to it, thinking 


naturally that it would be a church ceremony only, and 
therefore public, as, in fact, we at first thought ourselves, 


But as we saw how interested people were, we were flat- 
tered and began to feel important, and, incidentally, to in- 
vite the world — of Taormina. 


Also, the Sindaco, or Mayor, Atenasio, told our daughter ' 
that he would do everything in his power — which meant — 


everything in Taormina — to make it a success; that, in- 
stead of going to his office for the civil ceremony, as was 
customary, he would hold it in the refectory of the monas- 


Hert, 


TAORMINA 277 


tery, so that in case of bad weather we should be under one 
roof. 

Every one who stays in Taormina knows every one else, 
and there were a number of people from both England and 
America in the diplomatic service wandering about on 
‘leave, and gradually the number grew until we had en- 
gaged about fifty people for the ‘sit-down’ luncheon. 

‘No, it would not be advisable to have a ham,’ said our 
hotel proprietor, who was a gentleman and an American. 
“It was very hard to get ham, and, by the time you got it, 
it wouldn’t be safe to eat it. Y-e-s, lettuce; they would be 
very careful about washing it. Yes, we could have salad 
and crépe, the tiny little shrimps, a great delicacy during 
the season, provided the weather was pleasant, and the 
men could go out in the boats and catch them.’ 

I thought at first that I would ask some friends who were 
coming from Italy to bring down the wedding cake, but I 
thought better of it. Travelling in Sicily is none too com- 
fortable, and such a big round box would be difficult to 
throw in and out of car windows, and to sit upon where 
there was but little space, and, later, my forbearance was 
rewarded when I saw the table set for the banquet. 

Then our friends in Rome wrote that they would come 
for the event. Mr. Robert Underwood Johnson (who was 
at that time Ambassador), Mrs. Johnson, and their grand- 
daughter, Olivia; also Mr. Cresson’s friend, Mr. Frank 
Gunther, Counselor at the Embassy, who would come 
with his wife and be best man. 

Of course there were no cares, no responsibilities, no 
notes to write, nothing to buy, a full-fledged picturesque 
wedding with nothing to do about it, except to enjoy one’s 
self. Could any bride be more blessed! 


278 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


_ The whole town turned out. The Embassy were met 
down at Giardini by the gendarmes, who, with guns over 
_ their shoulders, escorted them up the six miles of roadway _ 
' to the Castellamare Hotel where they were to stay. The 
American flag was hung out above the hotel beside the ~ 
Italian, and there, together, they floated for days. We, too, 
had stopped at the Castellamare for the first week of our 
arrival, unnoticed and obscure, but, upon the arrival of - 
the Embassy, our status was immediately changed. We 
were hardly allowed to walk upon the street without being 
bowed and salaamed to. : 
The day of the wedding was a perfect day, a crystal blue 
above, an iridescent sea below, nothing but sea and sky and 
the towering mountain of snow, and floating clouds of 
blossoms down the hillsides. Every one sent us flowers, 
small clothes-baskets dripping with roses—and our 
friends, the American girls, helped Mr. French decorate 
the church. | 
I remember that an hour, perhaps, before the ceremony, 7 
the bride, who had nothing to do, standing out upon the 
balcony of her room, with her pink kimono, gathered up, — 
filled with great bunches of violets, dropped them down 
upon her friends upon the terrace beneath. Every one was 
out on the terrace, or upon her own particular balcony in 
the intervals of dressing, laughing, joking, offering advice. 
It was a gala occasion, a ‘festa.’ For the moment, we were 
all Sicilians: some one was going to be married, and there — 
were no responsibilities, just shining spring-time, and 
blossoms, and joy. ‘ 
There had been preparations, as we discovered later, but 
they were not of our doing. Our friend, Mr. Foster, for in- 
stance, rushed out upon the terrace and announced breath- 


TAORMINA 279 


lessly, ‘The street has been swept — first time in a thou- 
sand years!’ 

There had been a bachelor dinner the night before with 
the nice rector of the English church, who was to officiate 
the next day, the bride’s father, the Ambassador, the best 
man, and a stray friend and traveller, all, except the min- 
ister, Americans, and thrilled at this little touch of America 
in a foreign land. 

And there were funny complications such as naturally 
went with marrying in an isolated island, where nobody 
knew anything, and nobody could find out anything. The 
bridesmaid, finding herself so unexpectedly a bridesmaid, 
was to wear a picture hat which the bride had kept stored 
away in her trunk, because so far there had been no occa- 
sion great enough upon which to try it. 

And the Ambassador, on his way home from the bache- 
lor dinner, had cleverly wrenched open a big iron gate, 
supposedly the entrance to the hotel, and had found him- 
self ensconced in the chicken yard — which, after the con- 
fiding manner of Sicily, was unsuspectingly near the en- 
trance — and had great difficulty in wrenching it open 
from the inside, in order to escape; also in convincing his 
friends — though we refrained from circulating the story 
at the time — that there had been at the supper only the 
most innocuous of the amber wines of the country. 

When we left the house, there was one motor for the 
bride and groom and bridesmaid. The rest of us followed 
leisurely on foot, a stone’s throw up to the monastery, 
laughing and exchanging greetings with every.one, friends 
and strangers alike, some of whom walked a few steps with 
us, took our photographs, and made us feel in general like a 


festival, 


280 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


At the gateway facing the mountain stood, rigid against 
the gateposts, two carabinieri, the famous military police 3 
of Italy. They stood like statues in their gorgeous uni- — 
forms, cocked hats, and gay red pompons. Back of them 
the bandmaster, with his white cock plumes, and his band — 
of thirty pieces, among the trees inside. A little to one 
side, playing his pipe, was the old piper to whom we had 
listened and talked, and, be it said softly, had liberally © 
tipped, whenever we had met him seated upon a wall or — 
rambling upon a hillside. He had brought a little reed pipe, — 
carved with her name, for the bride, and was playing, of — 
all things, the ‘Pastorale,’ because he knew that she loved 
it, that most wonderful shepherd song which, if you live 
in Taormina, and become intimate with its hills, you heat 
constantly, though I remember we were there some weeks 
before we ever heard it at all. : 
_ I know that it is called the ‘Pastorale of Gesh Bambino,’ 
and I had heard that it was like the coming of angel hosts" 
—on Christmas Eve under the starlight in the square — 
before the cathedral, the touching little procession, the 
child angels, the Bambino lifted on high before the an 
blazing pinwheels .. | 

“Why the pinwhedled? we asked. | 

‘Oh, the pinwheels,’ was the answer, ‘are to attract the 
attention of the Lord down upon the Holy Infant.’ 

In such a scene it would be easy to call it religion, but 
in those southern, primitive countries, the religion, the 
folklore, the passions of pastoral life, are hopelessly mixed. 
It is a wordless folk-song of the Taormina hills, trans- 
mitted orally from generation to generation. There is — 
much more in it than can be put into words, It is more 
than the wise men of old coming to greet their Lord; itis _ 


TAORMINA 281 


the peasants, the shepherds of the hillsides, breaking forth 
into the joy of sunlight and life. 

There is no other song, or rather air, just like it in the 
world. It has all the wildness, the abandon of the French 
‘Carmagnole,’ with none of the “Carmagnole’s’ urban 
despair. It is of the mountains, tender, illusive, joyous. 
It is the tinkling of the bells upon the hillsides, the call of 
the flute in the upper spaces, the breath of the flowers, the 
glow of the sunshine, the abandon, the love, the passions 
of primitive nature, frozen into song and music in the 
making of the world. 

Later, when we paused in front of the beautiful facade, 
the great brass-studded door was closed. There was no bell; 
we were apparently not expected. But we were Sicilians 
for the day, and nobody minds in Sicily, so we waited and 
talked and laughed, the whole bridal party, and presently, 
true to form, an old woman, with a shawl over her head 
and a child by her side, came peeping around a distant 
corner. 

‘Un minuto, signori, un minuto.’ Then they disap- 
peared, and a moment later the great door was opened 
with profound apologies — greetings. 

Of course this greatly troubled dear Miss Hill, who had 
done so much to make everything possible and beautiful, 
but we loved it. It was so much more Sicilian than to 
have the doors thrown open by stately flunkies, and no 
one, not even the Ambassador or the carabinieri, or the 
band, or even the bride, was on this day in the least 
hurried. 

We gathered in the great refectory to the left of the 
cortile. Many of the guests had joined us or arrived with 
us, and we all sat about, somewhat informally, upon the 


382 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE — 


arms of chairs — for the beautiful old room was full of 
Italian furniture — and welcomed our friends. I am sure 
that no one enjoyed it more than did the bride. — 

Back of the long table, against the Renaissance door, | 
stood the Sindaco in his green-and-gold sash, with one or — 


two aides beside him, the four carabinieri, and the band- .— 


master, who appeared for some reason to be an important 
part of the marriage service. The bride and groom stood 
facing them. ; 


After the civil ceremony, the Sindaco presented the 


bride with the tortoise-shell pen, with which they had 
signed the marriage certificate, in a white satin box. Then 
we all went out, across the cortile, and up the steps into the 
chapel. Some of us, the first to arrive, stood and watched 
the rest of the procession. The lovely young bridesmaid, | 
her arms full of roses, the little white figure of the bride in — 
her long white satin gown, in her hand a red morocco — 
prayer-book, the great pomponed carabinieri back of | 


her, the fountain playing, the sun shining, the walls and 


columns all dripping with vines. Then up the steps into 
the chapel, the four carabinieri — and the bandmaster — | 
standing at attention at the door, and later, when she 
came back from the altar, falling into line, and following 
her back into the refectory. eS 

Some one said to me, ‘Where on earth did she get that — 
dress? It looks as if it came out of a chest.’ And I realized 
how the long lines of my old satin, of no particular style 
or period, fitted into its surroundings — as no court train 
and short skirt could have done. — Dieta 

By a curious combination of family happenings, our — 
daughter was married with six wedding rings. It is a long 
story, but for various reasons the wedding rings of the - 


THE WEDDING PARTY IN THE ROSE GARDEN 


In the center: The Sindaco, Ambassador Johnson, the bride and groom 
and Mr. French 


TAORMINA 283 


family had been saved, making a broad band of tiny gold 
threads held together with a crosswise band, the oldest, 
the bride’s great-great-great-grandmother with its in- 
scription of ‘gratitude’ singularly appropriate to the 
medizval atmosphere of the place. 

_ Back in the refectory we sat down to a luncheon of per- 
_ haps fifty. And now the great excitement seemed to rest 
no longer upon the bride, but upon a large table at one end, 
under the Leonardo fresco, loaded down with food and 
resplendent with a wedding cake, in piled-up tiers of love- 
liness. The guests crowded about it, lost in admiration, 
having lived for weeks chiefly upon war-bread and maca- 
roni. It seemed like a ah wa — ‘just like Sherry’s!’ 
some one exclaimed. 

For here, spread out before them, was bouillon, jellied 
tongue, crépe 4 la Newburg, chicken salad, real ice-cream 
piled upon mounds of ice, and champagne, to be served in 
pitchers. 

I was so thankful that I had not troubled my friends in 
Rome, for the wedding cake was a gem of Sicilian culinary 
art, mound upon mound of piled-up frosting, spun sugar, 
tiny roses, and little statues, redolent of the ‘festa,’ a 
breath of the childish, simple life of the island. We could 
almost see it borne aloft at the head of the ‘Pastorale’ 
over the hills and far away. 

During the luncheon, the two bands played alternately, 
the orchestra inside and the band with the white cockades 
out under the trees. Later the wedding party gathered in 
front of the great facade of the monastery and was im- 
mortalized in pictures; and later still, in every nook and 
corner of the old monastery and its grounds: upon the 
stairway hugging the side of the wall, in the cortile, in the 


284 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE 


rose garden; and always the carabinieri — and the band- | : | 
master — in the background: they knew their duty, and 


they never missed an occasion to honor the bride — in 
these photographs that were to be sent to America! 


Then the bridesmaid took off the borrowed picture hat, Ce 


returned it to the bride, who, being already dressed in her 
everyday clothes, which she had worn for weeks in her 
rambles about the island, put it on and was ready for her — 
bridal tour. 

And we, the little party of dear friends, left sitting upon 
the seat of the parapet with our backs to the sea, the 
romantic old doorway facing us, were conscious of the fact 
that we had just been through a ceremony that might 
easily have taken place in the sixteenth century, and could 
never have happened in any civilized land nearer home. 

Married and happy ever afterward! A fitting end to 
these glimpses, these high-lights of the memories of a life- 
time! 


THE END 


INDEX 


Accademia di San Luca, 202 


Adams, Herbert, 166, 185, 186; his place 
at Cornish, 182 

tna, 265-67 

Alcott, Amos’ Bronson, 79, 80; at 
Concord ‘conversations,’ 56, 57; a 
dreamer, 84; anecdote of, 85 

Alcott, Louisa M., at unveiling of 
‘Minute Man,’ 60; her definition 
lof genius, 85; her headstone, 189; 
mentioned, 79, 80 

Alcott, May, 27, 49, 54, 57- 

Alcotts’, the, ‘conversations’ at, 56 

American Academy in Rome, 199, 191, 
200 


“Antigone,” a performance of, 202 


Appleton, Mrs., 165 

Arnold, Matthew, quoted, 201 

Art Commission, goes to Panama, 191; 
consults on forming of a National 
Art Commission, 195. 

Ascutney, 184 

Ashi, 227-30 

Astor, Mrs., on the Titanic, 165 


Atenasio, Sindaco of Taormina, 276, 


282 
Athens, 201, 202 
Austrian Embassy, in the War, 234-39 


Bacon, Henry, collaborator of French, 
258; architect and builder of Lincoln 
Memorial, Washington, 258-62; 
medal presented to, by Institute of 
Architects, 260, 261 

Balboa, town of, 191 

Ball, Miss Lizzie, 54, 71, 74 

Ball, Thomas, his studio at Florence, 
45, 46, 67, 68; letter of, to Judge 
French, 68, 69; his house, 72; his 
home life, 74; his Washington 
statue, 74; dream about his ‘Eve 
Just Created,’ 74, 75 

Ball, Mrs. Thomas, 74. 

Balls, the, 72, 74 


Bandits, in Sicily, 271 

Barker, John, 2, 3 

Barneys, the, 162 

Barrett, Lucy, 47 

Barrymore, Ethel, in ‘Captain Jinks,’ 


39 

Bartlett, George, a wit, 86, 91, 92; his 
shows, 87 

Bartlett, Martha, 86 

Bartlett, Ripley, a wit, 86; his shows, 


i 

Bartlett, Mrs., sister-in-law of Mrs. 
French, 89 

Barton, Clara, 227 

Basques, 38, 97 

Bedbugs, 179, 180 

Bell, John, Senator, 109 

Bigelow, Poultney, 158 

Bitter, Karl, 168, 187; how he became 
a sculptor, 206, 207 

Black veil, ceremony of the taking of, 


44 

Blaine, James G., intimate friend of 
Judge French, 53; at unveiling of 
‘Minute Man,’ 61, 76; story told by, 
62, 63; his defeat, 63 

Blaine, Mrs. J. G., 61, 63 

Blashfield, Mr., engaged in work on 
World’s Fair, 176 

Blashfields, the, 155, 166 

Bonnets, 39 

Booth, John Wilkes, 7, 12, 14, 16 

Borghese Ball, 72 

‘Boston,’ dance, 72 

Boston Massacre, 110 

Boston Public Library, doors of, 189 

Botta, Mrs., 162, 163 

Bouguereau, A. W., his studio, 174 

Bourget, Paul, 157 - 

Boutwell, George S., 86, 87 

Bowles, Mrs. Samuel, 93 

Brady, May Ellen, visits Pres. Jack- 
son, 19-21; presented with pipe by 
President, 21 


288 IND 

Brady, Ned, 31 

Brady, Peter, grandfather of Mrs. 
French, settles in Washington, 19; 
private secretary of Pres. Jackson, 19 

Brady, Miss Sarita, 45; her dress, 39; 
called ‘Mr. F.’s aunt,’ 129; her re- 
ceptions, 146; and Senator Conkling, 


149 

Brandt, Miss, friend of Mrs. Burnett, 
131, 132 

Brewster, William, ornithologist, 28, 
204, 205 

Bronson, Miss Edith, married to Count 
Cosimo Rucellai, 156. 

Bronson, Mrs., 156 

Brown, Mercy, 105 

Bryan, William Jennings, story of, 222, 
223 

Burnett, Frances Hodgson, 116; “That 
Lass 0’ Lowrie’s,’ 126, 130; her ap- 
pearance, 126; her charm, 126, 130; 
her evenings at home, 126, 133; her 
children, 130; seeming change in her 
personality, 130; her manner with 
children, 131-33; in later life, 134; 
‘The Head of the House of Coombe,’ 
135; her death, 136; her ‘Robin,’ 167 

Burnett, Lionel, 130, 131, 134 

Burnett, Vivian, 130, 131, 134 

Burroughs, John, 204, 247 

Burton, Mr., friend of Peary, 140, 141 

Busey, Dr., his account of old Washing- 
ton, 12 

Bush-Brown, Mr., 262 

Bustles, 38 

Butt, Major Archie, on the Titanic, 165 

Buttrick, Stedman, 88 


Caldwell, Brown, 240 
Calhoun, John C., 12 
Cannon, Joseph G., 262 
Capping poetry, 86 
Carmencita, 161 
Carnegie, Andrew, 211 
Carnival, 73 
Caswell, George, and Guiteau, 150, 151 
Caswell, Mrs. George, 140 
Catania, 266 
Catholicism, in America, 43; temporal 
pretensions of, 43 


Channing, W. E., 


EX 

‘Century Magazine,’ 138, 139. 

84 

Chase, Salmon P., Chief Justice of the 
Supreme Court, 147, 148 

Chase, William, a Bohemian, 161, 1683 
his studio, 161 oe 

Chester, N. H., 101-15 | 

Chester, Dr., Presbyterian minister, 31 

‘Chesterwood,’ 203, 222, 246, 247, 263 

Chignons, 39 

Children, argument about their souls, 


57 
Choate, Joseph H., 198, 204, 242, 2435 
254-58 
Choate, Mrs. Joseph H., 255, 256 
Choate, Miss Mabel, 240 
Choates, the, 242 
Christening, a, 102 
Christmas carol, story of a, 144, 145 
Christmas celebration, 88 ) 
Churchills, Winston, the, their house, 
184 
Clark, Walter, 222 
Clark, William, 245 
Clay, Cassius M., 162 
Cleveland, Mrs. Grover, 116, 151, 152 
Competitions, 209 
Concord, Mass., visits to, 27, 433 ‘high 
thinking and plain living’ of, 46, 625 
everyday life in, 50, 55-57; the 
‘Minute Man’ in, 57-62, 68, 75-785 
of 1878, 79-100; a quaint and beauti- 


89-91; and Lexington, rivalry be- — 
_ tween, 93 


Sprague, 148, 149; in the Senate, 149 
150 

Conspirators, trial of, 15, 16 
Convent of the Visitation, Georgetown, 


43-45 
‘Conversations,’ 56, 83, 86 
Conway, Martin, 155 
Cook, Frederick Al 143 
Copley, John S., portrait by, 110, 111 
Cornish, N. H., 181-87 
Cortissoz, Mr., 261 
Couper, William, sculptor, 175 
Cox, Kenyon, rudeness of, 158, 1593 
engaged in work on World’s Fair, 176 


ful town, 87; social democracy of, 


Conkling, Roscoe, Senator, and Mrs, 


a a a, 


af 

% 
4 

: 


er ee eee Se le vite = 


ee 


Dee ee a. 
ee eer 


i at ee 
, : 


INDEX 


Coxes, Kenyon, the, 155 

Cram, Ralph Adams, 242 

Cresson, Mr., wedding of, 269, 272-84 
Crowninshield, Frederic, 191 
Crowninshield, Mrs. Frederic, 144, 145, 


257 

Crowninshields, the, of Stockbridge, 
242 

Croquet, 37 

Curtis, George William, orator at 
unveiling of ‘Minute Man,’ 60, 61, 
76; mentioned, 84 

Custer, General, 23 


Dallin, Cyrus, wins in competition, 
208-10 

Dana, Richard H., 28, 242 

Darkies, 116, 120-25 

Davis, Jefferson, 14 

Davis, Norman, 242 

Debarkation Hospital Number Three, 
227 

De Bruce, Mr., 268 

De Forest, Mr. 198 

De Forest, Mrs. Emily, her account of 
founding of Metropolitan Museum, 
193, 194 

Dewing, Tom, his house at Cornish, 183 

Dewings, the, 155, 165 

Dexter, Timothy, 108 

Dickens, Charles, 130 

Dodge, Miss (Gail Hamilton), a bril- 

- liant conversationalist, 53, 63; at 
unveiling of ‘Minute Man,’ 61 

‘Duddington,’ estate in Washington, 
18, 34 

Duff-Green, General, 12 

Dumba, Baron, Austrian Ambassador, 
234-39 

Duncan, Isadora, 249-54 

Duryea, Mrs., 269, 276 

Duryea Relief, 226, 227 

Duse, Madame Eleonora, her appear- 
ance, 157; entertains Francesca 


Gilder, 170, 171 


Edwards, Jonathan, house of, 240 
Eliot, Charles W., 53 

Eliot, George, 150 

Elwell, F. E., 155, 213, 214, 215 


289 


Emerson, Edward, 64, 83, 96 

Emerson, Miss Ellen, 55, 80, 81, 95-99 

Emerson, R. W., takes part in affairs 
of Concord, 54; his admiration for 
Alcott, 56; ‘conversations’ at his 

_ house, 56, 83; approves of sketch of 
‘Minute Man,’ 57; at unveiling of 
‘Minute Man,’ 61; photograph of, 
64; considers pedestal for ‘Minute 
Man,’ 77; as he appeared on Con- 
cord streets, 80; never anything but 
reverence for, 82; anecdote of, 83, 
84; mentioned, 79, 109 

Emerson, Mrs. R. W., 96, 99, 100 

‘Endymion,’ 137 

Evarts, William M., Secretary of 
State, go 

‘Eve Just Created,’ dream connected 
with, 74, 75 

Expense, the question of, for the 
sculptor, 224-26 


Fashion pageant, a, 37-41 

Flagg, Betsy Van Mater, 105 

Flagg, Rev. Ebenezer, 110 

Flagg, Sarah Wingate (Mrs. Daniel 
French), 105, 106 

‘Flagg-marriages,’ 110 

Florence, and Paris, as art schools, 49; 
appearance of, 70; society in, 71; 
the climate of, 72; as a permanent 
home, 77 

Foster, Mr., 278 

Frelinghuysens, the, 157 

Frémiet, Emmanuel, sculptor, 175 

French, Amos Tuck, 33, 108 

French, Major B. B., his house, 5, 33- 
353 quotations from his letters, 6, 7; 
his second wife, 34; characteristics of, 
35-37; a croquet party at his place, 
37-41; death of, 41; funeral of, 41, 
42; story of marriage of, 107, 108 

French, Mrs. B. B. (Mary Ellen, 
‘Laine’), 34 

French, Daniel, 103; last remaining 
wife of, 104, 105 

French, Mrs. Daniel, 105, 106, 115 

French, Daniel Chester, called ‘Dan’ 
French, 27; meets future wife, 27; 
practises moulding when a boy, 28; 


290 


daguerreotype of, at about the age of 
five, 29; story of his cat, 29, 30; re- 
turns from Florence, 45; his intellect- 
ual environment, 46; sympathy of 
townspeople for, 46, 47; the first 
story of his coming to the surface, 48; 
early studies of, 49; decides to go to 
Florence, 49, 50; his household, 52, 
53; his ‘Minute Man,’ 57-62, 68, 
75-78; returns from abroad, 66, 77, 
78; his student days in Europe, 67-78; 
his diary, 69, 70; vacations of, at 
Chester, N.H., 103-05, 111-15; works 
at farming, 112, 113; sells turnips on 
streets of Boston, 113-15; inWashing- 
ton, 116; and father, bond between, 
117, 118; Porter’s portrait of, 137, 
138; decides to settle in Concord and 
Boston, 146; forms friendship with 
Porter, 146; marriage of, 153, 1543 
gives up studios in Concord and Bos- 
ton, 154; his ‘Republic,’ 167, 174, 
176; his Gallaudet statue, 154, 171, 
172; birth of his daughter, 172; 
works for World Fair, 174-77; ex- 
hibits ‘Angel of Death’ in the Salon, 
175; receives medal, 175; his John 
Boyle O’Reilly, 188, 189; his doors 


for Boston Public Library, 189; as-| 


sists in completing headstone of 
Louisa M. Alcott’s grave, 189; his 
interest in American Academy at 
Rome, 190, 191; visits Panama as 
member of Art Commission, 191, 
192; appointed Trustee of the Metro- 
politan Museum, 192; serves on Art 
Commission called to consult as to 
forming of a National Art Commis- 
sion, 19$; initiated as member of 
Accademia di San Luca, 202, 203; 
his interest in bird-lore, 204; in com- 
petition for ‘Paul Revere,” 209; his 
view of competitions, 209; his ‘Stand- 
ing Lincoln,’ 222-24; plays at por- 
trait painting, 246; his seated Lin- 
coln, 258-64 

French, Mrs. Daniel Chester, her mem- 
ory of Lincoln, 1-13; visits Concord, 
27, 43; meets Dan French, 27; goes 
to school at Convent of the Visita- 


INDEX 


tion at Georgetown, 43-45; visits — 


Chester, N.H., 102, 104; her ances- 


try, 108; becomes acquainted with 


Dan French, 116; compliments to, 
118-20; marriage of, 153, 154; child 
born to, 172 ; 
French, F. O., 163 
French, Henry, 117 . 


French, Judge Henry Flagg, a man of 


literary attainments, 27, 46; letters 


of, 29, 50, 52-55, 59-65, 109, 1375 1533 
anecdotes of, 50-52, 57, 64; his ad- 


vice as to ‘Minute Man,’ 58; bust of, _ 


58, 59; always a farmer, 63, 64; As- 
sistant Secretary of the Treasury, 65, 
66; letter of Thomas Ball to, 68, 69; 
secures portrait of William Merchant, 
111; inures son to farming, 112, 113; 
and son, bond between, 117, 118; re- 
turns to Concord to live, 153 


French, Margaret, daughter of Mr.and — _ 


Mrs. D. C. French, 172, 173, 186, 
217; her present from Mr. Pratt, 189, 
190; her meeting with Roosevelt, 
196, 197; her work in the War, 227- 


30; leads Ice Glen Parade, 244; wed- 


ding of, 269, 272-84 


French, William, 28, 29, §3,83, 87,1033 


attends to pedestal for ‘Minute Man 
76,77 : 
French, W. M. R., 187 


Frenches, the, settle in New York, I 543 | 


go to Paris, 174, 175; at Cornish, 181— 
87; settle in Stockbridge, 200; go 


22 | 
Frost, Mr., accompanies Kennan to. 
Siberia, 140 : 
Fuller, Margaret, 162 

Furness, W. H., 162 


Gaillard, Colonel, 191 


171, 172 


171, 172 
Games, 86 
Gardner, Miss Jennie, 174 


abroad, 201-03; their Christmas 
dinners, 210; build a new house,220- 


Gallaudet, Thomas Hopkins, founder of * i 
Deaf Mute College, statue of, 154, 


Gallaudet, Dr., son of T. H. Gallaudet, 


INDEX are 


Garfield, James A., assassination of, 
150 

Garibaldi, Giuseppe, 73 

Garibaldi waist, 38 

Garland, Hamlin, 166 

Georgetown, Convent of the Visitation 
at, 43- 

Gilbert and Sullivan, ‘Patience,’ 127 

Gilder, Francesca, 168-71 

Gilder, R. W., 165, 166, 170 

Gilder, Mrs. R. W., 155-57, 161, 162, 
170 

Gilders, the, 155-61 

Goodrich, Miss Mary Jane, of Stock- 
bridge, 242 

Gorgas, General, 191 

Gracie, Colonel, on the Titanic, 165 

Grant, U. S., 14; at unveiling of ‘Min- 
ute Man’, 60, 61 

Grant, Col. Ulysses S., 3d, 362 

‘Gray and his sheep,’ 73 

Great Barrington, Mass., 200 

Grecian Bend, 39, 41 

Greece, 201, 202 

Greeley, Horace, 162 

Greenwood, Grace, 162 

Gregory, Lady, 196 

Guiteau, murderer of Garfield, 150, 
ISI 

Gunther, Frank, 277 


Hall, Miss, music teacher, 169 

Hamilton, Gail. See Dodge, Miss 

Harding, Pres. Warren G., 261 

Hardy, Arthur Sherburne, Minister to 
Greece, 202 

Harris, Prof. William Torrey, 84 

Hatch, General, 133, 134 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 79, 80 

Hill, Lady, 275 

Hill, Miss, owner of Santa Caterina, 
274, 275, 281 

Hoar, Beth (Mrs. Samuel Bowles), 93 

Hoar, Miss Elizabeth, 60, 61 

Hoar, Judge E. R., 54, 57, 85; at un- 
veiling of ‘Minute Man,’ 60, 61; 
reply of, to Miss Alcott, 60; his wit, 
92, 93; story told by, 93 

Hoars, the, called the ‘Royal Family,’ 


93 


Hobson, Richmond P., 204, 207, 208 

Hogarth, William, illustrated volume 
of, 109 

Holt, Mrs. Henry, 161 

Homer, Madame, 248, 249 

Homer, Sidney, 249 

Hoop-skirt covers, 38 

Hoop-skirts, 38 

Houses, in Washington, 17-19, 24-26, 


33> 145 _ 
Howe, Julia Ward, 138 
Howe, Maud, Porter’s portrait of, 137, 


138 
Howells, William Dean, 155, 158 
Hudson, Mrs., story told by, 82 
Hurd, Carrie, 119 
Hurd, Miss Hattie, 73, 99 
Hutton, Laurence, Mr. and Mrs., 


1s 


Ibbetson, Mrs. (Luly Powers), 67, 71 
Ice Glen Parade, 244-46 

Inch worm, poem about, 96 
Institute of Architects, 260, 261 


Jackson, Andrew, 19-21, 35 

James, Henry, novelist, 91, 204, 206 
James, Robertson, a wit, 91, 92 
James, Prof. William, 91 

Janvier, 187, 210 

Johnson, Olivia, 277 

Johnson, Robert Underwood, 247, 277 
Johnson, Mrs. Robert Underwood, 158, 


277 
Johnsons, Robert Underwood, the, 
157, 158 
Johnston, Mrs. (Annie Lazarus), 183 
Johnston, John Taylor, one of founders 
of Metropolitan Museum, 193, 194 
Johnston, Mrs. John Taylor, 193, 194 


Kemble, Miss Fanny, institutes Ice 
Glen Parade, 244 

Kennan, George, 116; his trip to Siberia, 
138-40 

Keyes, Miss Alicia, 90, 91 

Keyes, Annie, 64 

Keyes, Miss, 99 

Keyes, George, 38 

Keyes, John, 64 


292 


Lamond, Major, 227, 228 

Landigan, James, 112 

Lathrop, George Parsons, 157 

Laurel Hill Association, of Stockbridge, 
242-44 

Lawrence, Bishop William, 242, 243 

Lazarus, Miss Annie, 183 

Leagate, Miss, 99 

Lee, Mass., 240 

Lee, Robert Edward, 14 

Le Gallienne, Richard, 181 

Leghorns, 39 

Lenox, Mass., 200, 240 

Lexington, and Concord, rivalry be- 
tween, 93 

Likeness, 246, 247 

Lincoln, Abraham, assassination of, 
I, 3-12; on the night of the fall of 
Richmond, 8; his personality, 12, 13; 
abused and adored, 14; French’s 
statues of, 222-24, 258-64 

Lincoln Memorial, Washington, 258-64 

Little Lord Fauntleroy, 130 

Longman, Evelyn, 187, 188, 259 

Low, Will, 155, 166 

Lowell, J. R., at unveiling of ‘Minute 
Man,’ 61 

Lukeman, Augustus, engaged in work 
on World’s Fair, 176; his ‘Stone 
Mountain Memorial,’ 176 


McClellan, George B., 14 

McKim, Charles, 189, 190, 191 

MacMonnies, F. W., his fountain at 
World’s Fair, 176, 181 

Mafia, 271 

Magnolia, the, 33, 34 

Mallorca, 268 

‘Mann, Colonel,’ editor of ‘Town 
Topics,’ 211 

Manship, Paul, 204, 247, 248 

Maud Miller hats, 39 

Merchant, William, Copley portrait of, 
110, 111 

Metropolitan Museum, 195, 202-90; 
trustees of, 193; founding of, 193, 


194 
Millet, Frank, 163-65, 176 
Millet, Mrs. Frank, 163 
Minturn girls, 161 


INDEX | 


‘Minuettes, The,” 62 

‘Minute Man,” French’s first statue, 
46, 57, 68; unveiling of, 58-62; 
French name for, 75; pedestal of, 76, 
77; French sees it in bronze for first 
time, 78 

Mirafiore, Contessa, 72 

Mission House, Stockbridge, 240 

Mitchell, Johnny, editor of ‘Life,’ 210 

Mitchell, Miss Mattie, married to Duc 
de la Rochefoucauld, 174 

Models, 211-19 

Mola, 265, 271 

Morgan, J. Pierpont, 198, 199 

Morgan, Mrs. J. Pierpont, 161 

Morgans, the, 162 

Morrill, Lot M., Senator, at unveiling 
of ‘Minute Man,’ 61; appointed 
Secretary of the Treasury, 64, 65; his 
friendship with Judge French, 65, 66 

‘Mr. F’s aunt,’ 129, 130 

Munzig, 74 

Music Club, 161, 162 


National Art Commission, 195, 196 
New Year’s Day, receptions on, 146,147 


Old John, 194 

Olmsted, Mr. and Mrs. F. L., visit 
Panama, IgI, 192 

O’Reilly, John Boyle, group, 188, 189 

Osborn, Mrs. Henry Fairfield, 204 

Owl, the calling of an, 204, 205. 

‘Owls making love,’ 62 


Paderewski, I. J., 157, 161, 168 
Paris, and Florence, as art schools, 49 
Parrish, Maxfield, his place at Cornish, 


183 
‘Pastorale of Gest Bambino,’ 280, 281 
Peabody, Miss Elizabeth, 84 
Peary, Admiral Robert E., 116, 138, 
140-45 : 
Phillips, Wendell, his funeral, 93 
Philosophers of the Summer School 
of Philosophy, 81, 82 
Piccirilli Brothers, statue of Lincoln in 


Lincoln Memorial, Washington, cut — | 


in marble by, 259 
Picnics, 88 


INDEX 


Pierce, Franklin, 109 

Pittsfield, Mass., 200 

Plancon, Pol Henri, 161 

Platt, Charles, his home at Cornish, 
183 

Poe, Edgar Allan, 162 

Poor, Mrs., 163 

Porter, Benjamin C., 74; his portrait of 
Miss Howe, 137, 138; his portrait of 
Dan French, 138; his portraits of 
beautiful women, 146, 155 

Potter, Edward C., anecdotes of, 48, 
166-68; engaged on work for World’s 
Fair, 176, 177 

Potter, Mrs. Edward C., 167, 168, 179, 
180 

Powers, Hiram, 50 

Powers, Longworth, 67 

Powers, Luly, 67. See Ibbetson, Mrs. 

Powers, Ned, 67, 74 

Powers, Miss Nellie, 71 

Powers, Preston, 50, 67, 70 

Powers, Mrs. Preston, 67, 69 

Powers, the family, 67 

Pratt, John, his present to Margare 
French, 189, 190 

Preston, Harriet, 53, 64, 76 

Preston, Mrs., 117 

Puritans, Io, 102 

Putnam, Miss Margaret, 92 


Randazzo, 266 

Rapallo, 268 

Reading, Lord, 204 

Red Cross, 227-32 

Reid, Bobby, 166, 168 

Reid, Whitelaw, 174 

‘Republic,’ World’s Fair statue of, 167, 
174, 176, 181 

Reynolds, Parson, at unveiling of 
‘Minute Man,’ 61 

Rice, Col. Edward, Head of Police at 
Chicago, Military Governor of the 
Philippines, 177, 178 

Rice, Mrs. Edward, 177, 178 

Richardson, Ann, 109 

Richardson, George, 156 

Richardson, Judge William Merchant, 
107, 108, 109 

Richardson, Chief Justice, 108 


293 


Richmond, fall of, 6, 7 

Rimmer, Dr., sculptor and draughts- 
man, 49) 575 59 

Robinson, Mrs. Douglas, 196 

Robinson, Edward, 203 

Rochefoucauld, Duc de la, 174 

Rodin, Auguste, 203 

Rolshoven, 175 

Roosevelt, President Theodore, 191; 
calls Art Commission to consult as 
to forming of a National Art Com- 
mission, 195; his manner and ap- 
pearance, 195-97; abuse of, 197-99 

Root, Elihu, 198 

Rucellai, Count Cosimo, 156 

Russell, Charles, 8, 9 

Russell, Mrs., 9 

Russia, 138-40 


Saint-Gaudens, Augustus, 154; never 
willingly attended gatherings, 161, 
184-87; and Edward Potter, 166, 
167; his house in Cornish, 183; never 
won competition in younger days, 
209 

Saint-Gaudens, Mrs. Augustus, 185 

Saint-Gaudens, Louis, 187 

Saint-Gaudens Memorial Publication, 
182% 

Saint-Gaudenses, the, 155 

St. Louis Custom House, 137 

Salons, 155-63 

Sanborn, F. B., 53; his house, 87; his 
appearance, 94 

Santa Caterina, wedding in, 273-84 

Sargeant, Rev. John, missionary to 
Indians, 240 

Sargent, John Singer, 82, 161, 163 

Schoonmaker, Miss, 191, 203 

Sculptor, the popular idea of, 259 

Sculpture, the placing of, in exhibitions, 
262 

Sedgwick, Henry, and family, of Stock- 
bridge, 241, 242 

Sedgwick, Miss, 162 

Sedgwick Museum, Stockbridge, 241 

Sedgwicks, the, 156 

Seward, F. W., Assistant Secretary of 
State, 6, 7 

Seward, William Henry, § 


294 


Shaw Memorial, 166 
Shepherd, ‘Boss,’ 32 
Sherrill, General, 262 
Siberia, 138-40 

Sicily, 265-84 

Silhouette, 247 

Sisters, at convent, 43-45 


Spriggs, Mrs., her boarding-house, 12 


Sousa, John Philip, 152 


Sprague, Mrs. Kate Chase, 116, 147- 


49 
Staples, Samuel, town constable, 85 


Stevens, Mrs. Paran, her evening par- 


ties, 155, 156 
Stockbridge, Mass., 200, 220, 240-58 
“Stone Mountain Memorial,’ 176 
Straw hats, 39 


Summer School of Philosophy, Con- 


cord, 81-84 
Surratt, Mrs., conspirator, 15, 16 
Swearing, the art of, 36, 37 


Taft, Chief Justice William H., 261 
Taormina, 265-84 

Taylor, Bayard, 162 

Tea-party, Boston, 110 

Thayer, Abbott, 187, 204 


INDEX 


Thoreau, H. D., 79, 80, 945 9§ ° 
Tiffanys, the, 162 

Titanic, the, 164, 165 

*“Tree-box,’ 32 

Tuckerman, Miss Emily, 201, 242 
Tuckermans, the, 157, 242 
Twain, Mark, 159-61 


Vanderbilt, George, 161 
Vanderbilts, the, 162 
Van Rensselaers, the, 157 
Von Papen, 235 


Whitman, Mrs. Sarah Helen, 162 
Wilcomb, stage driver, 102 © 
Wilde, Oscar, 126-29, 175 
Williamstown, Mass., 200 

Willis, N. P., 162 
Wilson, Woodrow, abuse of, 232-34 
Windsor, Vt., 181, 182 

Winthrop, Mrs., 250 

World War, 226-39 

World’s Fair, 167, 174-77, 178-81 


Ysaye, Eugéne, 161 — 
Zangwill, Israel, 187, 204, 210 _ 


